Page 121 of Stuart Woods' Golden Hour

She found an email address for him that appeared to be for priority matters.

She created a dummy email account and wrote a message.

Dear Director Cabot:

Someone in your organization has been selling information. I’ve included copies of the documents that were exchanged. I’ve done apreliminary track back and the sender appears to be a person named Richard Pearson. I advise doing your own investigation.

Also, if you have any ties to the film producer Billy Barnett, please know that his life is in danger, and advise himnotto attend the World Thriller Film Festival this evening.

The app she was using would remove all traces of who she was from the email when it was sent.

She was reading through her message to be sure it said what she wanted it to when her office phone rang, the caller ID reading:F. Braun.

She looked around nervously, wondering if cameras had been installed in her office without her knowing.

As the phone rang for a third time, she picked it up. “This is Jillian Courtois.”

“I need you in my office right now,” Braun said.

“Okay, sure. What is this—” She stopped herself when she realized he’d hung up.

She wondered if he knew what she was doing, and whether she should delete the email instead of sending it.

She took a breath to steady herself and hitSend.

“Oh, God,” she whispered as the message disappeared.

She logged out of the app, and then headed for her meeting with Braun.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Lance’sphone pinged.

He’d hitched a ride early that morning on a Strategic Services jet that would be dropping him off in D.C.

The message was from an unknown sender, and he wouldn’t have opened it but for the subject line that read:Golden Hour.

He read the note and looked at the attachments.

His search for the mole had not been going well, and now he knew why. Richard Pearson had not been on anyone’s list of potential leakers. Lance himself could barely remember what the man even looked like. From what he could recall, Pearson was quiet and unassuming and good but not great at his job.

Lance made a call. “Bailey. It’s Lance. There’s something I need you to take care of.”

Ten minutes later, and lessthan fifteen after Jillian had hitSendon her email, someone rang Richard Pearson’s doorbell.

His five a.m. alarm had just gone off, and he had yet to pull himself out of bed.

The bell rang again.

“Are you going to get that?” his wife asked without opening her eyes.

“Why me?” he asked.

“It won’t be for me. It never is at this hour.”

The bell sounded a third time.

“Get the door,” his wife said. “They’re obviously not going away.”

Pearson grumbled and crawled out of bed. After pulling on his robe, he made his way downstairs.

---