Kline placed the tape recorder on the table and waited. It didn’t take long for Henry to start squirming.
“Do you know why I’m here, Mr. Ellis?”
The slim engineer with black-rimmed glasses blinked several times and bumped his coffee mug, nearly spilling its contents across the table. “I–ah, I have no–I don’t know. No.”
“The name ‘Simon Kingsley’ mean anything to you?”
Kline knew it would. Simon Kingsley was a harmless, small-time bookie from Tampa. He was neither important, nor interesting, but Henry had placed losing bets through Kingsley several months prior. The bets were insignificant in the bigger scheme of things, but of the utmost importance to a guilt-ridden Henry Ellis.
Henry couldn’t see the future, had no way of knowing that he’d pay those debts off in less than a year. After 1970, money wouldn’t be a problem for Henry. In 1970, however, Henry had no idea what his future would look like.
But Kline did.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You make a habit of giving seven hundred and fifty dollars to strangers?”
“W–what? How do you–”
“I need information,” said Kline. “We have reason to believe there’s a leak in your department.”
“A leak?”
“Someone’s feeding information to the Soviets.”
“I would never–” blurted Henry.
“We know it’s not you.”
Henry Ellis. A good man who had made a bad decision. He’d only placed the bets with Kingsley because he had needed money. That was before he’d been able to land his current job as low-level NASA engineer.
But those bets gave Kline the bargaining chip he needed.
“What about Kingsley–”
“Nobody needs to know. The FBI would rather keep this between the two of us. Just work with me and keep your mouth shut.”
“So…you’re blackmailing me?”
“Think of it as insurance.” He moved his coffee mug to the side and squinted at his prey. “Now, tell me more about the Apollo Program, Henry.”
