We confirmed the gray-jacketed man entered the charity hotel before your departure and left shortly after the source approached the park. Reviewing whether he followed the source.
The agent read the message.
Then looked toward the source.
"Did anybody know you were coming to the charity luncheon?"
He frowned.
"I wasn't attending."
"Did you visit the hotel?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
The agent leaned forward.
"When?"
"Yesterday morning."
"Why?"
"I had to deliver revised procurement documents to one of the event coordinators."
She looked toward the box.
"Was that part of your ordinary work?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"But I didn't stay for the event."
The agent considered.
The source had entered the hotel.
The security director had access to the event's security arrangements.
And the agent's extravagant gown made her easy to identify.
Perhaps no one had leaked confidential FBI plans.
Perhaps the security director had simply followed the source.
Then noticed him approaching the woman who had been speaking to foundation executives all afternoon.
It was a plausible explanation.
But the investigators still needed evidence.
She looked toward the source.
"Thank you for telling me."
He nodded.
Then asked a question that made her pause.
"Can I go home?"
She studied him.
He looked exhausted.
Frightened.
And desperate to return to ordinary life.
"We'll work with you on an appropriate safety plan," she said. "You shouldn't have to handle this alone."
His eyes filled.
He looked toward the cardboard box.
Then whispered, "I just want to be able to pick up my daughter from school."
The agent felt a familiar ache.
She thought of her own mother.
The evening phone call.
The way an ordinary family could suddenly become entangled in a frightening investigation.
She reached across the table.
"I understand."
And she meant it.
The grandmother from the apartment building had never met an FBI agent before.
When investigators arrived at her home, she opened the door only after confirming their identities.
Her apartment was small.
Clean.
And filled with photographs of grandchildren.
A beautiful crocheted blanket covered the back of the sofa.
A small bookshelf stood near the window.
And a stack of notebooks rested beside the kitchen table.
The grandmother was sixty-eight, Black American, with short gray curls and the confident posture of someone who had spent years refusing to be intimidated.
She studied the investigators.
Then looked toward the woman with platinum-blonde hair.
"You're the one from the video."
The agent nodded.
"Yes."
The older woman's expression changed.
"Lord have mercy."
She stepped aside.
"Come in."
The agents entered.
The grandmother offered tea.
They declined politely at first.
She insisted.