She was holding a couple of fax pages. Densely typed.
“What you need is somewhere else to work,” I said. “What about that buddy of yours up in Atlanta FBI? The one you told me about? Could you use his office as a kind of private facility?”
Hubble looked like a different guy. He was gray and sweating. The tan had gone. He looked smaller. He looked like someone had let the air out and deflated him. He was bent up like a man racked with pain. His eyes behind the gold rims were blank and staring with panic and fear. He stood shaking as Baker unlocked the cell next to mine. He didn’t move. He was trembling. Baker caught his arm and levered him inside. He pulled the gate shut and locked it. The electric bolts snicked in. Baker walked back toward the rosewood office.
“They’re not Picard’s,” he said. “He’d have told me.”
Hubble did nothing. Filled with panic.