The Barrister's Gavel

935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. FBI Headquarters Special Agent Marcus Jorgen clutched the thick folder with a firm grip as if his life depended on it. He walked through the vast corridors of the Hoover building to his office, carefully placed the item on his desk, and then sat down and reclined in his swivel chair. He stared at the folder and mulled over the ten minute conversation he’d just had with the director of the FBI. During those ten minutes the director had used the word “priority” two times, “urgent” four times, “importance” three times and “dangerous” two times. Most people did not count key words—or any words for that matter—while having a conversation with someone, but Special Agent Jorgen did, because he was thorough—very thorough. He had been with the Bureau for almost twenty-five years and had not only apprehended some of the most elusive criminals in the world, but had recovered over five hundred million dollars worth of stolen arts and cultural property. He was an expert in the subject and had a reputation that preceded him not only in the United States but all over the world, and he had the medals and awards to prove it. This was why he had been approached by the FBI director with this highly sensitive matter. Jorgen stared at the folder. The director had been very clear—he was to relinquish every other assignment in his caseload and give his undivided attention to this one. He reached over and opened the thick folder. The first items he saw were two old newspaper clippings, one of which had been printed on September 4, 1972. Almost forty years ago to the day, he thought to himself. The second clipping was printed on December 8, 1977. After reading both articles, Jorgen knew at once that despite his success and outstanding career, his legacy with the Bureau depended on the outcome of this case. He sighed at the reality then buzzed the intercom on his desk. “Get me Sifuentes immediately,” he said. “On line one,” the secretary replied. “Sifuentes has been waiting for your orders, sir.” He hit the button for line one, his eyes lingering on the two newspaper articles. “Agent Sifuentes?” “Yes, sir.” Sifuentes’s voice sounded from the FBI field office in New Jersey. “Bring her in,” he ordered, “just like we talked about.” “Yes, sir . . . what about Daxton Longhorn?” Jorgen kept his eyes on the folder and chewed on the question for a while. “Not yet,” he said finally. “Let’s find out everything we can about him before bringing him onboard. “Yes, sir.” He hung up and glanced at his watch; he had a plane to catch in less than an hour. He sighed, then picked up the two articles and started reading again.