“The letters from the ministry in Belgrade,” he said, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. “The ones concerning the defense radar codes. She kept them in her private deposit box at the bank on Peachtree.”

“We searched that box,” I said. “It was empty.”

“Because she moved them,” Grant said, his eyes wide with a sudden frantic hope. “She moved them to the carriage house. Under the floorboards in the old tack room.”

I looked past him toward the stone carriage house at the rear of the property.

The windows of the upper apartment were dark, but the ground floor double doors were secured with a heavy iron padlock.

“If you’re lying to me, Grant, your prosecution will be handled by a military tribunal instead of a federal court,” I said.

“I’m not lying,” he said, his voice cracking. “I swear to God, Allison. The key to the floorboard compartment is in the lining of her jewelry case. The one she brought out to the car.”

I closed the door of the SUV, cutting off his voice.

The latch clicked shut with a solid, final sound.