"What cargo?"
"Unscreened. Through the service corridor, nights. I've got a source — a handler — who says it's been going on for a year." She met his eyes. "I think it's drugs. I think Aegis is getting paid to look the other way."
Frank was quiet for a long moment. Drugs through the service corridor — it fit. The fees were small money, seed money, culture money — teaching the staff that rules were flexible. The real money was the bypass.
"Nadia," he said carefully. "If I help you — and I'm not saying I will — you don't publish until I say so. People could get hurt."
"People are already getting hurt." But she nodded. "Deal. Until you say."
Frank looked out the diner window at the glass building. Aegis Secure. The architectural equivalent of a shrug.
"Tell me about your source," he said.
Nadia told him about Eddie on the drive — forty, ramp handler, twenty years, a nephew dead of an OD. "He's the one who told me about the corridor," she said. "He's terrified, Frank. If they find out — "
"They won't," Frank said. "Not from me."
She dropped him at his hotel. He went up, locked the door, and opened the file Cross had sent — the Aegis dossier, thin as promised.
Victor Hale. Forty-eight. Ex-Army logistics. Founded Aegis six years ago with a Small Business Administration loan and a prayer. Won the Merritt contract eighteen months ago — beating two larger firms, somehow. Revenue tripled since. The former TSA regional director joined the board six months after the contract award. The revolving door, Frank thought. Greased.
He cross-referenced with Ruth's notes — the USB drive, sixteen months of dates. The fee incidents clustered around shift changes. The camera outages: always Tuesday and Friday, always 1-4 AM. The manifests: medical equipment, twice weekly, same shipper — a company called "Meridian Medical Supply."
Meridian. The same name as the shell — Meridian Consulting. Frank smiled, thin. Amateurs. They'd reused the name. Arrogance, or laziness — either way, a thread.
He called Cross. "The shipper's called Meridian Medical Supply. Check it."
"On it." A pause. "Frank. The mole — we've got a short list. Three names. All inside DHS."
"Send them."
"I can't. Not over this line." Cross lowered his voice. "Frank. Whoever it is, they've been reading my briefings. Be careful."
Frank hung up and sat in the dark hotel room, thinking about moles. He'd hunted them before — in Kabul, in Caracas. The worst part wasn't the betrayal. It was the doubt — the way it poisoned every conversation, every alliance.
Even me, Cross had said. Be careful who you trust. Even me.
Frank looked at the torn ticket pieces on the desk. Paper doesn't run out of battery. And paper — unlike people — didn't lie.
He trusted Ruth. He trusted Nadia. He trusted Eddie — the terrified handler with the dead nephew.
It would have to be enough.
Chapter 5 — Ruth Adler
Ruth Adler had been with TSA for sixteen years, and she'd learned to smell rot the way other people smelled rain.
It had started small — a year ago, whispers about the "verification fee." Then the complaints: passengers, always the vulnerable ones — the elderly, the immigrants, the tired — pressured at check-in by certain agents. Then the cargo manifests that didn't add up, the service corridor cameras that kept "malfunctioning" on night shifts, the Aegis supervisors who waved trucks through with a nod.
She'd reported it. Twice. Both reports had vanished into the system like stones into a well.
So when Frank Delaney — sixty-two, flannel, with a clearance that made her supervisor go pale — walked out of the little room and asked for her help, Ruth felt something she hadn't felt in a year: hope. The dangerous kind.
They met after her shift, in the parking garage — the cliché made Frank smile.
"You've been keeping notes," he said. It wasn't a question.
Ruth handed him a USB drive. "Sixteen months. Fee incidents, dates, agents. Manifest discrepancies. Camera outages." She looked away. "I don't know what the cargo is. But it's big. And it's regular. Every Tuesday and Friday, 2 AM."
Frank pocketed the drive. "Why didn't you go higher?"
"I did." Her voice was flat. "The regional director — the one now on Aegis's board — buried it. After that, I — " She stopped. "I have a daughter in college, Mr. Delaney. I couldn't afford to be a hero."
"You're being one now."
"I'm being careful." But she met his eyes. "The fee money — I've tracked some of it. It goes through a shell — 'Meridian Consulting' — then it just... stops. Like it evaporates."
"Laundering 101." Frank nodded. "Ruth. The agent — Shane Kovacs. What's his story?"
"Twenty-eight. Hired by Aegis eighteen months ago — right when they took over. Fast-tracked. He's — " She hesitated. "He's not just rude, Mr. Delaney. He's protected. Three complaints against him, all dismissed. Someone's keeping him in place."
"Victor Hale."
"Or whoever Hale answers to." Ruth looked at the terminal lights. "Mr. Delaney — what is the cargo?"
Frank was quiet for a moment. Then: "Nadia Rahman's source says drugs. My gut says she's right — fentanyl, probably, given the volumes. But guts aren't evidence." He started walking. "Tuesday's in four days. I want to see that corridor."
"That's insane. It's the most secure — "
"It's the most compromised area in the airport, and you know it." Frank stopped. "Ruth. I need eyes inside. You're the only person in this airport I trust."
She stared at him — at the flannel, the calm, the sixty-two years. Then she nodded, once.
"Tuesday," she said. "2 AM. I'll get you in."
Frank smiled — the small, calm smile. "Then we'd better get some sleep. Both of us."
As he walked away, Ruth called after him: "Mr. Delaney! The torn ticket — I'm sorry. About all of it."
Frank turned. "Don't be. Best thing that ever happened to this audit." He held up half a boarding pass — he'd kept the pieces. "This little piece of paper just bought us the whole investigation."
He tucked it into his wallet, next to his wife's photo. Paper doesn't run out of battery, she'd said. She'd been right about everything.
That night, Frank did what he always did before an operation: he cleaned his tools. Not weapons — he hadn't carried in ten years. His tools now were different: the phone (encrypted, Cross's people), the camera (button-sized, in the duffel lining), the notebook (paper, Margaret-approved).