It was the old signal my father had used when he visited the late-night shifts.

For a long minute, there was no sound but the rain drumming against the metal awning above.

Then, the heavy brass lock turned.

The door opened a few inches, held by a thick security chain.

A pair of pale, watery blue eyes peered through the gap.

“Eleanor?” a dry voice whispered.

“It’s me, Miller,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“I need your help.”

The old man stared at me, his gaze moving to the empty street behind me.

He unhooked the chain and pulled the door open.

He was wearing a faded woolen cardigan over his olive-drab uniform trousers.

His hands were spotted with age and shook slightly as he gestured for me to enter.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, locking the door behind me.

“They’ve been asking questions about your husband’s old files.”

“Who has?” I asked.

“Major Cross,” he said, spit dry on his lips.

“She was here yesterday afternoon.”

“She wanted the index logs for the 2019 procurement authorizations.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.