He looked at my uniform, then at the folder in my hand.

“Colonel Richards,” he said, his voice deep and raspy.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“Mr. Sterling,” I said.

“I need your help to file a direct federal indictment.”

He looked past me toward the fog-filled driveway, his eyes scanning the dark trees.

“Come inside,” he said, stepping aside.

“But do it quickly.”

I walked into the warm living room, which was lined with tall bookshelves and smelled of woodsmoke.

A large desk sat near the window, covered in neat stacks of legal documents.

“Gregory’s people have been calling my office all evening,” Sterling said, closing the door behind me.

“They wanted to know if you had contacted me.”

“What did you tell them?” I asked.

“I told them I hadn’t heard from you in years,” he said, walking over to his desk.

“But I knew you’d come.”

He pointed to the red folder.

“Let me see what you brought.”

I laid the folder on the desk and opened it to the first page of signatures.

Sterling put on a pair of reading glasses and began to flip through the documents.