The tired agent heaved a weighty sigh at the ringing of his doorbell. 'Who
could this be?' he asked himself, only hours back from his disturbing
sojourn in Rome. In theory, the only people who would even know he was
back were Tim, A.J and his boss, and he was pretty sure they all knew that
he needed some time to regroup from the events of the last week. He hadn't
even bothered to call his mother about his return home.
He certainly was in no frame of mind to be hosting any guests.
He walked wearily to his front door and looked through the side light, dropping his head at the image before him. Rabb. Just what he needed.
He opened the door.
"Rabb."
"Webb," Harmon Rabb said, an already sympathetic tone evident in the one word greeting. Their eyes locked, both attempting to decipher the mood or otherwise determine the other man's intent on this early Monday evening.
The Navy man seemed uneasy standing on the stoop of Webb's Alexandria townhouse. Though he was curious about Rabb's discomfort, Webb had other far more pressing matters to contemplate. Aside from that curiosity, his inbred spy's nature told him to be suspicious of Rabb's unexpected appearance.
"What're you doing here, Rabb?" The commander now knew why he'd been sent. Webb looked terrible, the burden he was carrying evident in his worn features, in the deep sadness in his eyes, in his overall bearing. The admiral had been cryptic, at best, in enlisting Rabb for this assignment. It was obvious to Rabb that what had gone on in Italy had affected Clayton Webb in a most profound and alarming way.
There was clearly something wrong with his CIA friend.
"Can I come in?"
Webb lowered his head and sighed. He stepped aside and leaned heavily against his front door as he reluctantly waved Rabb in, not looking up as the JAG lawyer stepped by him. The thought of sparring with Harmon Rabb this day was an event his tired mind and aching body were not prepared to reckon with so soon after..
Webb shut the door and stayed next to it, a clearer signal not possible that the guest was not welcome.
An uncomfortable silence settled between the two. Rabb waited patiently in the foyer for Webb, sensing that the CIA operative was weighing his options. Rabb noticed that Webb seemed as uncomfortable as he himself felt being there. But rather than be forced to ignore a direct order, Rabb chose to obey the admiral's 'strong suggestion' that he stop by Clayton Webb's house for a visit.
Webb closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door. The very long flight back from Rome and the need for sleep, combined with a bad case of jet lag, plus other worries that still filled his soul, had brought him to the very edge of exhaustion. Unfortunately, as so often happened when his body had worked beyond what it should ever be forced to endure, insomnia reared its ugly head. He hadn't slept well in days.
He'd slept fitfully, if at all, that last night in Rome. A.J. Chegwidden's patient ear and wise counsel had done an enormous amount to clear his head and set his mind in the right direction. Even so, the minute he would fall asleep the visions of Teresa Marcello with his bullet in her head came immediately back to him. He wasn't seeing the terrible image every few minutes like he had been for the first few hours after the incident; seeing it every time he closed his eyes was torture enough.
He felt grateful to no longer be seeing his loved ones in danger during these daydreams, for they would have to be classified as daydreams since he had not gotten any decent sleep, save for when they knocked him out in the hospital, for going on two and a half days. He shook his head at the thought that A.J. might actually be good as a therapist, despite his often gruff manner. But Webb had learned in the last week that much of that gruffness was for show, that A.J. Chegwidden was indeed soft spoken and considerate, a caring man, a deep and sensitive thinker and listener. A friend.
Rabb continued to stare him down. Any other visitor might have acknowledged the spy's mood and chosen to come back another time. Not Harmon Rabb, Webb thought. No, once he had it in his head what it was that he wanted, he was bound to go after it, full throttle as always. It was characteristic of a great naval aviator and a fine lawyer.
And a good friend? It seemed odd that he had just finished re-evaluating his relationship with A.J. Chegwidden, and here he was doing much the same with Rabb.
Their relationship was not a close one, despite the work they had done together and the information they had shared. But there was something in their relationship that tied them together, something that they each knew could be the basis for a deeper friendship: loyalty, commitment, trust. Shared? Yes. Earned? No doubt. It was a relationship that spoke volumes about how they truly felt about one another, even if neither chose to verbalize it, or give it the title that it justly deserved.
This day was not the day to test that relationship. Webb knew that his head was not in a good place; it might not be for some time to come. No, whatever Harmon Rabb was looking for on this day, Webb would choose to keep his swirling emotions in check, knowing that Rabb knew just what buttons to push to push him over the top.
Besides, Webb accepted with disdain, his mother had raised a gentleman, so he invited Rabb in, even offering the Navy officer a drink as they sat down in the living room. Thanks, Mother, he thought sardonically.
"No thanks, Clay," Rabb answered, his plan of getting Webb out of the house precluding the necessity of getting too comfortable.
Webb looked at Rabb, waiting for him to make known why he'd shown up on the operative's doorstep. He knew that Chegwidden had spoken to Rabb; why else would Harm show up here? If Harm needed something for a case, he would have called Webb's office or his mobile phone. No, this visit was private, personal, and had Admiral Chegwidden written all over it.
This visit was also unwanted.
"Can we take a ride?"
Rabb needed to get Webb on neutral ground. It seemed the agent was intent on protecting himself. Rabb recognized the turmoil. He knew those feelings: deep, painful thoughts that he himself had endured in his troubled youth that could have caused irreparable damage to his own future, to the future that had been planned for him early on in his life: the future of a boy, and then a young man, who was meant to follow in his father's footsteps. The pain of a loss that tore at his psyche - at his very soul, could have caused things to turn out so differently for him. But he had learned to live with that pain, with the help of many, despite continuing to carry that pain into his adulthood.
Yes, Webb was working through something. But he was deliberately refusing to open up about it here, on his own turf. It was natural that Webb's subconscious would not allow him to dive too deeply back to the pain of what happened those two days ago. Rabb knew, though, that Clayton Webb needed to talk about that experience in order to learn how to live with it.
Whatever his role in Chegwidden's plan to help Webb heal, Rabb knew those efforts would not take place in Webb's living room. It was clearly too painful for the CIA man to discuss openly in this place. A man's home was his safe haven, a place to go to relieve his worries, to soothe his soul, to renew mind, body and spirit. Rabb did not want anything to ruin how the man felt about going home. He knew how much time Webb spent away from it. It should not become a place where he withdrew to lick his wounds. It was how Rabb felt about his own place, as well, and he would do everything in his power to safeguard his friend's sanctuary.
"Where do you want to go?" Webb asked as he moved to the piano bench, gazing out the window as he pondered the costs and benefits of going with Rabb. He knew he would not be sleeping any time soon. What would be the harm, so to speak, in spending some time with Rabb. Plus, something was tickling at the back of his mind, reminding him that A.J. had sent Rabb over for a reason.
"How about a light dinner at Argia's?"
Webb scowled at the suggestion. "No." Simple and direct. That was refreshing, Rabb thought, considering all the times that he had gotten the run-around from Clayton Webb.
Webb looked at his watch and then said, "Let's walk over to George's Bar and Grill. It's a nice corner tavern, mostly pub fare, quiet." He looked up at Rabb. A demeanor so full of pain was hard to deny.
"Sure."
Webb rose from his seat near the window. "Give me a few minutes?" he grinned sheepishly, knowing how he must look. A.J. had given him the once- over when they parted ways at the airport. Webb knew that with the five o'clock shadow and the bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, not to mention the still fading scrapes and bruises from the grenade attack, he was in no shape to show his face on the streets of Alexandria.
"I'll make myself comfortable snooping around," Rabb smiled.
"I wouldn't expect any less," Webb replied, a hint of a grin briefly washing across his face, though quickly followed by the now too familiar wounded look.
Rabb found himself alone in the living room. The lawyer scanned the room carefully, though with a less severe eye than his last casing of the place. That last time he was desperate to find some understanding of why Clayton Webb had died. Grateful once again for how that difficult time had turned out, he was happy to look upon the place now with an eye toward helping Clay fight whatever demons were now plaguing him.
For a man who kept secrets, and in the past willfully withheld critical information from Rabb during previous assignments, Webb's townhouse told a great deal about the man. Webb's home was tastefully decorated and very traditional, neither of which were unexpected. It was a light and airy space, and it was the welcoming air that surprised, as well as the personal touches that dotted the indoor landscape. The large number of photographs told the story of a proud lineage. The grand piano and cello were evidence of a cultured man with hidden talents. The treasured books and trophies lining the bookcases told of a studious and competitive youth. The photos from the Olympics exposed the athlete, something that Webb never seemed to flaunt in his work but its mere fact had obviously worked to his advantage in more than one tight situation. This, too, was a side of Clayton Webb that should not surprise him. But somehow, what Rabb saw today seemed more telling than before.
Or maybe Harmon Rabb was seeing things today in a new light: a new light that had been shown on this man by his boss Admiral A.J. Chegwidden and the story of bravery and sacrifice and guilt that had been suffered by Webb over the course of the last year and in the Roman capitol such a short time ago.
From this visit, Rabb felt that he had culled some clues about Clayton Webb that might help him break through the wall that the spy seemed insistent on enclosing himself behind. Rabb hoped that these few minutes would provide him with the key that would help Webb open up about what had happened, about what he had been forced to do, about how to live with those actions. Rabb wasn't sure he was the right person for the job, but as the man's friend it was his right and his duty to try.
Webb came back through the hallway that he had disappeared through some ten minutes earlier. He had freshened up, shaved, and changed out of the sweats he'd been wearing, donning casual khakis, a blue oxford shirt, pressed, and a tan suede jacket. He looked not so much like the calm, buttoned-down and oh-so-confident CIA operative that Rabb was used to as he did someone who had lost his way and was desperately seeking something that he didn't look too convinced he really wanted to find.
Rabb had his work cut out for him.
********
It was telling that Clayton Webb had agreed to join Rabb at all on this excursion. They walked in relative silence to the neighborhood eatery, Rabb mostly answering Webb's questions on the goings-on at JAG headquarters and the recent capture of former DSD agent Clark Palmer, their dangerous encounter with the insane adversary not so long removed from this day. The thought of how close Palmer's most recent plan came to putting Jordan in her grave sent a chill though Harmon Rabb.
Rabb knew the small talk was just Webb's way of easing into something far more serious. The Navy man had noticed the fading bruises and scrapes on the agent's face, the limp from the grenade still evident in the man's stride. But he was glad to see that Webb seemed willing, if not anxious, to talk, even if it was just to ask how Harriet's pregnancy was going, or how Mac was faring.
He even asked if Harm had made a decision about leaving JAG and going back to flying. Rabb wondered how Webb came across his information. Why was it so important for Webb to know so much about Rabb and the other people at JAG? It could not entirely be the excuse he'd heard from Webb himself: to stay one step ahead when they were brought together for joint missions. Was it possible that his intense interest was just the spy's way of keeping track of people? His own strange way of showing his concern for people he cared about?
They entered the corner restaurant and bar and found a table far removed from the early arriving happy hour crowd. The rich mahogany bar was accented on the back wall with mirrors and stained glass. It was elegant but far from pretentious. The lighting was subdued, the live jazz piano echoing the establishment's tasteful décor. Rabb felt it an apt place for Clayton Webb to want to be; it seemed a place where Webb had come to unwind more than once.
They both ordered beers and their meals, Rabb opting for a pasta dish as the bar's menu seemed heavily meat influenced. He figured the pasta primavera would be his best bet this night. Webb ordered the soft-shell crab special.
Webb watched the piano player finish his set, offering applause first before a few of the other patrons joined in.
"How long have you played?" Rabb asked.
"All my life."
"Are you any good?"
Webb turned to face Rabb now that the musician was on his break. He smiled and answered, "I'm good."
Rabb smiled broadly at the confident reply. Webb would be good. He seemed the type. The over-achieving child of over-achieving parents. But somehow, Rabb felt certain that though there may have been pressure put upon the young Clayton Webb to practice and excel in every activity in which he participated, Webb would find the benefit in everything he tried. From what Rabb had learned about Porter Webb, both first hand and from Webb indirectly, the agent's parents would never have forced anything on their son; none of the suggestions for learning and growth would have been dictated. He pictured Porter and Neville Webb sitting young Clayton down and fully discussing the benefits to be gained in developing a love of music by practicing daily his piano and cello lessons, or the discipline to be learned from mastering fencing, or the meaning of trust that would develop between a young man and his grand steed.
"Why don't you give it a try?" Rabb doubted he'd be taken up on the suggestion.
"No. No. Another time." Rabb hoped that would be true.
"Maybe we should get together sometime. I play a pretty mean guitar."
"So I've heard," Webb smiled, and then was quiet for a while. Finally, he asked, "So, what did A.J. tell you? You must have been pleased when he ordered you to come baby-sit me."
"He didn't order me to do anything." Clay looked Harm in the eye, knowing that some part of that statement was not true. "Okay, he didn't order me to baby-sit you. He was, uh, persistent that you might need someone to talk to."
"Yeah. How much did he tell you?"
"He told me you and he rescued Tim Fawkes."
"And?"
"He told me enough, Clay. I'd rather talk about how you're doing."
"Practicing for your psychiatry boards?" It seemed Webb's sarcastic sense of humor hadn't suffered any.
"I'm dating a psychiatrist. I think she's rubbing off a little, much to my chagrin," Rabb laughed as he thought of the changes Jordan had brought to his life.
"So, how is Dr. Parker?"
"She's fine. Let's not change the subject."
Webb nodded briefly. He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, dragging his hands down his face, just enough to expose his eyes to his Navy friend. Webb looked at Rabb momentarily, and then shook his head and removed his hands, clasping them in front of him on the table. The nervous preparation the agent was going through was so out of character for Rabb's CIA partner. Sure, he'd experienced something like it to a very small degree countless times from Webb - whenever Webb wanted to stall or otherwise misdirect or flat out lie to him during operations that they had worked in the past. He wondered if Webb knew how much he projected that. Rabb noted that Webb had gotten worse and worse at lying to him, figuring that the closer they became after each job they'd worked, the more guilt Clay felt in the effort. It explained a good deal about how much more forthcoming Clayton Webb had been with information as their relationship developed.
But it also explained Webb's reluctance to get close to anyone; the jeopardy was not insignificant should he let his guard down like that to someone who was not on his side.
"Clay," Rabb started, but Webb finally seemed ready to talk.
"I didn't think.I didn't know it would hurt so much. You know, you go through all this training, and you think you're prepared to handle anything."
Webb paused, his hands before him a sudden fascination as he tried to explain what he had been dealing with lately. Rabb had learned from the admiral about the guilt that Webb harbored this last year over the Fawkes fiasco. He knew that the emotions of that time had colored everything his spy friend experienced these last days. He also knew that for now the best thing he could do for his friend would be to listen to him and help him to come to the realizations that a clearer head would have already revealed to him.
"I know she had to die. She was a murderer. She wouldn't have thought twice about blowing my brains out if I'd given her the chance." Webb closed his eyes, the vision of the killing obviously going through his mind once again. Rabb knew that Webb would continue to replay it in his head for some time to come. Time was the best medicine for that. But getting Clayton Webb's head in the right place to accept that there indeed was no other choice - that was something that Harmon Rabb knew he and Admiral Chegwidden would be able to have some say in.
"Clay?" Harm asked, placing his hand on his friend's forearm. Webb looked up, the grief over what he had been forced to do, the anguish he felt from taking a life, had wholly consumed the man. No matter how much the admiral may already have said it to Webb, it was essential for Rabb to again impress upon him the justness of the action, the fact that whatever they were forced to do to gain Tim Fawkes' release was justified - that it was the only way they were ever to see Tim Fawkes free and alive again.
"The admiral told me about Teresa Marcello. She was cunning. And ruthless. Both of those proved by her ability to keep a top operative in her clutches for a year and in her wanton killing of anyone who would get in her way. She killed last week with that grenade. She could have killed you."
"I know that, Harm. Believe me, I'm not blind to what she was."
"Then you had to have known that the possibility existed that she would have to die."
"Yes. That's not." Webb hesitated, removing his arm from under Rabb's hand, placing his right elbow on the table and rubbing his brow. Then he looked up, holding his head tiredly and sending a look of desperation Harm's way, not knowing what to say to express why he continued to feel what he did for a woman who was a murderer, when he knew that woman had no sense in her heart of the worth of human life.
Was that the confusion, the mystery to his lingering feelings of pain and loss? That a life could have been lost, the life of somebody's daughter, maybe someone's lover, potentially a mother - that this life should mean so little that it was appropriate for him to not feel the way he did about taking that life. How could he, as a man of conscience, feel any other way, despite the fact that the desired goal, Tim's freedom, had been achieved?
"There's no special formula to help you get through this, Clay. You just need to know that not everybody is worth saving. I know I've learned that the hard way. Teresa Marcello's death was written for her long before you pulled the trigger. Her actions, her choices, not yours, led to her death."
"I never expected this kind of, I don't know, trouble, you know? I thought I'd be better prepared.." Rabb cut him off.
"If you were you'd be a robot. Thank god it affected you the way it did."
"I wouldn't wish these last few days on anybody," Webb said sadly.
"I know, Clay. And I'm not trying to short change you on your feelings. I'm sure they're very real and that you're hurting because of it."
"I'm.I-I've got A.J. and Tim," Webb paused briefly, "and you, trying to help me. When will I get it?"
"I think you already have. At least some. It'll take a while, I'm sure you've heard that from both the admiral and Tim. You're not Superman."
"No."
"Look. I'd be disappointed in you if what you did didn't affect you. The fact that you're feeling it more than you thought just shows that you're more human than we all thought."
"Thanks," Webb replied wryly.
"We were starting to wonder."
"Really." That was better, Rabb thought. Two chances in a row that displayed the classic Webb sarcasm. It was a good sign.
"Seriously, Clay. I think time and distance will help you. Perspective is going to be your friend here. And you cannot think of her as someone's daughter, or the fact that she might have had kids if you hadn't killed her." Rabb noticed Webb visibly wince, knowing he'd struck a nerve, not doubting that the agent had formed that image in his head over the last few days. "I know you're thinking it. She wasn't those things. She was a terrorist, a murderer. Cold-blooded and ruthless."
Webb nodded, knowing the truth in his friend's words.
"You need to deal with this. You need to be able to take action when it's called for."
"I don't think.."
"You don't think that will be a problem? How can you say that? You need to work through this now, Clay. You can't risk your life, or your comrades' lives if you're not going to be able to pull the trigger. Now's the time to act, to accept what you've done. To move on."
Webb steeled his jaw, the words sounding more like an order than the good advice they were meant to be. His first reaction was to challenge, to remind the Naval commander that the CIA was not under his command, that he had no right. But that was the Clayton Webb of tired mind and body reacting. He waited patiently for the finally clearer, cooler head of Clayton Webb, an operative in the U.S. intelligence community, an intelligent and reasonable man, to understand the words as they were intended.
The fact that those comrades could include the man sitting next to him, the man who was willing to help him in this time when he'd never needed help more, acted as the wake-up call that Webb needed. It was the slap in the face that Rabb, with great patience and restraint, refrained from doing.
"I'll be there to help you," Rabb added. The loyalty and commitment, and indeed the friendship displayed in the simple offer acted in a way that nothing to this point had been able to. The statement put something within reach that Webb had thought truly lost. Hope. He now felt a sense of hope that he would successfully put this behind him, that there was a real chance of being able to live with what he had done.
The pianist made his way back to the shiny black instrument as the waitress brought the two friends their meals. Another beer was ordered by each, and they continued to talk well into the night. The Navy man, happy that his friend seemed better about the terrible ordeal in Rome, the CIA man knowing how lucky he was to have so many special friends in his life, men who cared about his career, his sanity, his soul.
This night would linger in each man's memory. It would stand out as a significant change in the direction of their relationship, a tightening of the bonds of two people who were so different in background and temperament, but so similar in their sense of duty and commitment and single-minded love of country. It was a day that had made an indelible mark in their ability to open up to each other and to trust in each other.
Their many differences, from this day forward, would no longer be the distinguishing factor in their work together and in their friendship. This day had indeed become a turning point.
The End.
He certainly was in no frame of mind to be hosting any guests.
He walked wearily to his front door and looked through the side light, dropping his head at the image before him. Rabb. Just what he needed.
He opened the door.
"Rabb."
"Webb," Harmon Rabb said, an already sympathetic tone evident in the one word greeting. Their eyes locked, both attempting to decipher the mood or otherwise determine the other man's intent on this early Monday evening.
The Navy man seemed uneasy standing on the stoop of Webb's Alexandria townhouse. Though he was curious about Rabb's discomfort, Webb had other far more pressing matters to contemplate. Aside from that curiosity, his inbred spy's nature told him to be suspicious of Rabb's unexpected appearance.
"What're you doing here, Rabb?" The commander now knew why he'd been sent. Webb looked terrible, the burden he was carrying evident in his worn features, in the deep sadness in his eyes, in his overall bearing. The admiral had been cryptic, at best, in enlisting Rabb for this assignment. It was obvious to Rabb that what had gone on in Italy had affected Clayton Webb in a most profound and alarming way.
There was clearly something wrong with his CIA friend.
"Can I come in?"
Webb lowered his head and sighed. He stepped aside and leaned heavily against his front door as he reluctantly waved Rabb in, not looking up as the JAG lawyer stepped by him. The thought of sparring with Harmon Rabb this day was an event his tired mind and aching body were not prepared to reckon with so soon after..
Webb shut the door and stayed next to it, a clearer signal not possible that the guest was not welcome.
An uncomfortable silence settled between the two. Rabb waited patiently in the foyer for Webb, sensing that the CIA operative was weighing his options. Rabb noticed that Webb seemed as uncomfortable as he himself felt being there. But rather than be forced to ignore a direct order, Rabb chose to obey the admiral's 'strong suggestion' that he stop by Clayton Webb's house for a visit.
Webb closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door. The very long flight back from Rome and the need for sleep, combined with a bad case of jet lag, plus other worries that still filled his soul, had brought him to the very edge of exhaustion. Unfortunately, as so often happened when his body had worked beyond what it should ever be forced to endure, insomnia reared its ugly head. He hadn't slept well in days.
He'd slept fitfully, if at all, that last night in Rome. A.J. Chegwidden's patient ear and wise counsel had done an enormous amount to clear his head and set his mind in the right direction. Even so, the minute he would fall asleep the visions of Teresa Marcello with his bullet in her head came immediately back to him. He wasn't seeing the terrible image every few minutes like he had been for the first few hours after the incident; seeing it every time he closed his eyes was torture enough.
He felt grateful to no longer be seeing his loved ones in danger during these daydreams, for they would have to be classified as daydreams since he had not gotten any decent sleep, save for when they knocked him out in the hospital, for going on two and a half days. He shook his head at the thought that A.J. might actually be good as a therapist, despite his often gruff manner. But Webb had learned in the last week that much of that gruffness was for show, that A.J. Chegwidden was indeed soft spoken and considerate, a caring man, a deep and sensitive thinker and listener. A friend.
Rabb continued to stare him down. Any other visitor might have acknowledged the spy's mood and chosen to come back another time. Not Harmon Rabb, Webb thought. No, once he had it in his head what it was that he wanted, he was bound to go after it, full throttle as always. It was characteristic of a great naval aviator and a fine lawyer.
And a good friend? It seemed odd that he had just finished re-evaluating his relationship with A.J. Chegwidden, and here he was doing much the same with Rabb.
Their relationship was not a close one, despite the work they had done together and the information they had shared. But there was something in their relationship that tied them together, something that they each knew could be the basis for a deeper friendship: loyalty, commitment, trust. Shared? Yes. Earned? No doubt. It was a relationship that spoke volumes about how they truly felt about one another, even if neither chose to verbalize it, or give it the title that it justly deserved.
This day was not the day to test that relationship. Webb knew that his head was not in a good place; it might not be for some time to come. No, whatever Harmon Rabb was looking for on this day, Webb would choose to keep his swirling emotions in check, knowing that Rabb knew just what buttons to push to push him over the top.
Besides, Webb accepted with disdain, his mother had raised a gentleman, so he invited Rabb in, even offering the Navy officer a drink as they sat down in the living room. Thanks, Mother, he thought sardonically.
"No thanks, Clay," Rabb answered, his plan of getting Webb out of the house precluding the necessity of getting too comfortable.
Webb looked at Rabb, waiting for him to make known why he'd shown up on the operative's doorstep. He knew that Chegwidden had spoken to Rabb; why else would Harm show up here? If Harm needed something for a case, he would have called Webb's office or his mobile phone. No, this visit was private, personal, and had Admiral Chegwidden written all over it.
This visit was also unwanted.
"Can we take a ride?"
Rabb needed to get Webb on neutral ground. It seemed the agent was intent on protecting himself. Rabb recognized the turmoil. He knew those feelings: deep, painful thoughts that he himself had endured in his troubled youth that could have caused irreparable damage to his own future, to the future that had been planned for him early on in his life: the future of a boy, and then a young man, who was meant to follow in his father's footsteps. The pain of a loss that tore at his psyche - at his very soul, could have caused things to turn out so differently for him. But he had learned to live with that pain, with the help of many, despite continuing to carry that pain into his adulthood.
Yes, Webb was working through something. But he was deliberately refusing to open up about it here, on his own turf. It was natural that Webb's subconscious would not allow him to dive too deeply back to the pain of what happened those two days ago. Rabb knew, though, that Clayton Webb needed to talk about that experience in order to learn how to live with it.
Whatever his role in Chegwidden's plan to help Webb heal, Rabb knew those efforts would not take place in Webb's living room. It was clearly too painful for the CIA man to discuss openly in this place. A man's home was his safe haven, a place to go to relieve his worries, to soothe his soul, to renew mind, body and spirit. Rabb did not want anything to ruin how the man felt about going home. He knew how much time Webb spent away from it. It should not become a place where he withdrew to lick his wounds. It was how Rabb felt about his own place, as well, and he would do everything in his power to safeguard his friend's sanctuary.
"Where do you want to go?" Webb asked as he moved to the piano bench, gazing out the window as he pondered the costs and benefits of going with Rabb. He knew he would not be sleeping any time soon. What would be the harm, so to speak, in spending some time with Rabb. Plus, something was tickling at the back of his mind, reminding him that A.J. had sent Rabb over for a reason.
"How about a light dinner at Argia's?"
Webb scowled at the suggestion. "No." Simple and direct. That was refreshing, Rabb thought, considering all the times that he had gotten the run-around from Clayton Webb.
Webb looked at his watch and then said, "Let's walk over to George's Bar and Grill. It's a nice corner tavern, mostly pub fare, quiet." He looked up at Rabb. A demeanor so full of pain was hard to deny.
"Sure."
Webb rose from his seat near the window. "Give me a few minutes?" he grinned sheepishly, knowing how he must look. A.J. had given him the once- over when they parted ways at the airport. Webb knew that with the five o'clock shadow and the bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, not to mention the still fading scrapes and bruises from the grenade attack, he was in no shape to show his face on the streets of Alexandria.
"I'll make myself comfortable snooping around," Rabb smiled.
"I wouldn't expect any less," Webb replied, a hint of a grin briefly washing across his face, though quickly followed by the now too familiar wounded look.
Rabb found himself alone in the living room. The lawyer scanned the room carefully, though with a less severe eye than his last casing of the place. That last time he was desperate to find some understanding of why Clayton Webb had died. Grateful once again for how that difficult time had turned out, he was happy to look upon the place now with an eye toward helping Clay fight whatever demons were now plaguing him.
For a man who kept secrets, and in the past willfully withheld critical information from Rabb during previous assignments, Webb's townhouse told a great deal about the man. Webb's home was tastefully decorated and very traditional, neither of which were unexpected. It was a light and airy space, and it was the welcoming air that surprised, as well as the personal touches that dotted the indoor landscape. The large number of photographs told the story of a proud lineage. The grand piano and cello were evidence of a cultured man with hidden talents. The treasured books and trophies lining the bookcases told of a studious and competitive youth. The photos from the Olympics exposed the athlete, something that Webb never seemed to flaunt in his work but its mere fact had obviously worked to his advantage in more than one tight situation. This, too, was a side of Clayton Webb that should not surprise him. But somehow, what Rabb saw today seemed more telling than before.
Or maybe Harmon Rabb was seeing things today in a new light: a new light that had been shown on this man by his boss Admiral A.J. Chegwidden and the story of bravery and sacrifice and guilt that had been suffered by Webb over the course of the last year and in the Roman capitol such a short time ago.
From this visit, Rabb felt that he had culled some clues about Clayton Webb that might help him break through the wall that the spy seemed insistent on enclosing himself behind. Rabb hoped that these few minutes would provide him with the key that would help Webb open up about what had happened, about what he had been forced to do, about how to live with those actions. Rabb wasn't sure he was the right person for the job, but as the man's friend it was his right and his duty to try.
Webb came back through the hallway that he had disappeared through some ten minutes earlier. He had freshened up, shaved, and changed out of the sweats he'd been wearing, donning casual khakis, a blue oxford shirt, pressed, and a tan suede jacket. He looked not so much like the calm, buttoned-down and oh-so-confident CIA operative that Rabb was used to as he did someone who had lost his way and was desperately seeking something that he didn't look too convinced he really wanted to find.
Rabb had his work cut out for him.
********
It was telling that Clayton Webb had agreed to join Rabb at all on this excursion. They walked in relative silence to the neighborhood eatery, Rabb mostly answering Webb's questions on the goings-on at JAG headquarters and the recent capture of former DSD agent Clark Palmer, their dangerous encounter with the insane adversary not so long removed from this day. The thought of how close Palmer's most recent plan came to putting Jordan in her grave sent a chill though Harmon Rabb.
Rabb knew the small talk was just Webb's way of easing into something far more serious. The Navy man had noticed the fading bruises and scrapes on the agent's face, the limp from the grenade still evident in the man's stride. But he was glad to see that Webb seemed willing, if not anxious, to talk, even if it was just to ask how Harriet's pregnancy was going, or how Mac was faring.
He even asked if Harm had made a decision about leaving JAG and going back to flying. Rabb wondered how Webb came across his information. Why was it so important for Webb to know so much about Rabb and the other people at JAG? It could not entirely be the excuse he'd heard from Webb himself: to stay one step ahead when they were brought together for joint missions. Was it possible that his intense interest was just the spy's way of keeping track of people? His own strange way of showing his concern for people he cared about?
They entered the corner restaurant and bar and found a table far removed from the early arriving happy hour crowd. The rich mahogany bar was accented on the back wall with mirrors and stained glass. It was elegant but far from pretentious. The lighting was subdued, the live jazz piano echoing the establishment's tasteful décor. Rabb felt it an apt place for Clayton Webb to want to be; it seemed a place where Webb had come to unwind more than once.
They both ordered beers and their meals, Rabb opting for a pasta dish as the bar's menu seemed heavily meat influenced. He figured the pasta primavera would be his best bet this night. Webb ordered the soft-shell crab special.
Webb watched the piano player finish his set, offering applause first before a few of the other patrons joined in.
"How long have you played?" Rabb asked.
"All my life."
"Are you any good?"
Webb turned to face Rabb now that the musician was on his break. He smiled and answered, "I'm good."
Rabb smiled broadly at the confident reply. Webb would be good. He seemed the type. The over-achieving child of over-achieving parents. But somehow, Rabb felt certain that though there may have been pressure put upon the young Clayton Webb to practice and excel in every activity in which he participated, Webb would find the benefit in everything he tried. From what Rabb had learned about Porter Webb, both first hand and from Webb indirectly, the agent's parents would never have forced anything on their son; none of the suggestions for learning and growth would have been dictated. He pictured Porter and Neville Webb sitting young Clayton down and fully discussing the benefits to be gained in developing a love of music by practicing daily his piano and cello lessons, or the discipline to be learned from mastering fencing, or the meaning of trust that would develop between a young man and his grand steed.
"Why don't you give it a try?" Rabb doubted he'd be taken up on the suggestion.
"No. No. Another time." Rabb hoped that would be true.
"Maybe we should get together sometime. I play a pretty mean guitar."
"So I've heard," Webb smiled, and then was quiet for a while. Finally, he asked, "So, what did A.J. tell you? You must have been pleased when he ordered you to come baby-sit me."
"He didn't order me to do anything." Clay looked Harm in the eye, knowing that some part of that statement was not true. "Okay, he didn't order me to baby-sit you. He was, uh, persistent that you might need someone to talk to."
"Yeah. How much did he tell you?"
"He told me you and he rescued Tim Fawkes."
"And?"
"He told me enough, Clay. I'd rather talk about how you're doing."
"Practicing for your psychiatry boards?" It seemed Webb's sarcastic sense of humor hadn't suffered any.
"I'm dating a psychiatrist. I think she's rubbing off a little, much to my chagrin," Rabb laughed as he thought of the changes Jordan had brought to his life.
"So, how is Dr. Parker?"
"She's fine. Let's not change the subject."
Webb nodded briefly. He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, dragging his hands down his face, just enough to expose his eyes to his Navy friend. Webb looked at Rabb momentarily, and then shook his head and removed his hands, clasping them in front of him on the table. The nervous preparation the agent was going through was so out of character for Rabb's CIA partner. Sure, he'd experienced something like it to a very small degree countless times from Webb - whenever Webb wanted to stall or otherwise misdirect or flat out lie to him during operations that they had worked in the past. He wondered if Webb knew how much he projected that. Rabb noted that Webb had gotten worse and worse at lying to him, figuring that the closer they became after each job they'd worked, the more guilt Clay felt in the effort. It explained a good deal about how much more forthcoming Clayton Webb had been with information as their relationship developed.
But it also explained Webb's reluctance to get close to anyone; the jeopardy was not insignificant should he let his guard down like that to someone who was not on his side.
"Clay," Rabb started, but Webb finally seemed ready to talk.
"I didn't think.I didn't know it would hurt so much. You know, you go through all this training, and you think you're prepared to handle anything."
Webb paused, his hands before him a sudden fascination as he tried to explain what he had been dealing with lately. Rabb had learned from the admiral about the guilt that Webb harbored this last year over the Fawkes fiasco. He knew that the emotions of that time had colored everything his spy friend experienced these last days. He also knew that for now the best thing he could do for his friend would be to listen to him and help him to come to the realizations that a clearer head would have already revealed to him.
"I know she had to die. She was a murderer. She wouldn't have thought twice about blowing my brains out if I'd given her the chance." Webb closed his eyes, the vision of the killing obviously going through his mind once again. Rabb knew that Webb would continue to replay it in his head for some time to come. Time was the best medicine for that. But getting Clayton Webb's head in the right place to accept that there indeed was no other choice - that was something that Harmon Rabb knew he and Admiral Chegwidden would be able to have some say in.
"Clay?" Harm asked, placing his hand on his friend's forearm. Webb looked up, the grief over what he had been forced to do, the anguish he felt from taking a life, had wholly consumed the man. No matter how much the admiral may already have said it to Webb, it was essential for Rabb to again impress upon him the justness of the action, the fact that whatever they were forced to do to gain Tim Fawkes' release was justified - that it was the only way they were ever to see Tim Fawkes free and alive again.
"The admiral told me about Teresa Marcello. She was cunning. And ruthless. Both of those proved by her ability to keep a top operative in her clutches for a year and in her wanton killing of anyone who would get in her way. She killed last week with that grenade. She could have killed you."
"I know that, Harm. Believe me, I'm not blind to what she was."
"Then you had to have known that the possibility existed that she would have to die."
"Yes. That's not." Webb hesitated, removing his arm from under Rabb's hand, placing his right elbow on the table and rubbing his brow. Then he looked up, holding his head tiredly and sending a look of desperation Harm's way, not knowing what to say to express why he continued to feel what he did for a woman who was a murderer, when he knew that woman had no sense in her heart of the worth of human life.
Was that the confusion, the mystery to his lingering feelings of pain and loss? That a life could have been lost, the life of somebody's daughter, maybe someone's lover, potentially a mother - that this life should mean so little that it was appropriate for him to not feel the way he did about taking that life. How could he, as a man of conscience, feel any other way, despite the fact that the desired goal, Tim's freedom, had been achieved?
"There's no special formula to help you get through this, Clay. You just need to know that not everybody is worth saving. I know I've learned that the hard way. Teresa Marcello's death was written for her long before you pulled the trigger. Her actions, her choices, not yours, led to her death."
"I never expected this kind of, I don't know, trouble, you know? I thought I'd be better prepared.." Rabb cut him off.
"If you were you'd be a robot. Thank god it affected you the way it did."
"I wouldn't wish these last few days on anybody," Webb said sadly.
"I know, Clay. And I'm not trying to short change you on your feelings. I'm sure they're very real and that you're hurting because of it."
"I'm.I-I've got A.J. and Tim," Webb paused briefly, "and you, trying to help me. When will I get it?"
"I think you already have. At least some. It'll take a while, I'm sure you've heard that from both the admiral and Tim. You're not Superman."
"No."
"Look. I'd be disappointed in you if what you did didn't affect you. The fact that you're feeling it more than you thought just shows that you're more human than we all thought."
"Thanks," Webb replied wryly.
"We were starting to wonder."
"Really." That was better, Rabb thought. Two chances in a row that displayed the classic Webb sarcasm. It was a good sign.
"Seriously, Clay. I think time and distance will help you. Perspective is going to be your friend here. And you cannot think of her as someone's daughter, or the fact that she might have had kids if you hadn't killed her." Rabb noticed Webb visibly wince, knowing he'd struck a nerve, not doubting that the agent had formed that image in his head over the last few days. "I know you're thinking it. She wasn't those things. She was a terrorist, a murderer. Cold-blooded and ruthless."
Webb nodded, knowing the truth in his friend's words.
"You need to deal with this. You need to be able to take action when it's called for."
"I don't think.."
"You don't think that will be a problem? How can you say that? You need to work through this now, Clay. You can't risk your life, or your comrades' lives if you're not going to be able to pull the trigger. Now's the time to act, to accept what you've done. To move on."
Webb steeled his jaw, the words sounding more like an order than the good advice they were meant to be. His first reaction was to challenge, to remind the Naval commander that the CIA was not under his command, that he had no right. But that was the Clayton Webb of tired mind and body reacting. He waited patiently for the finally clearer, cooler head of Clayton Webb, an operative in the U.S. intelligence community, an intelligent and reasonable man, to understand the words as they were intended.
The fact that those comrades could include the man sitting next to him, the man who was willing to help him in this time when he'd never needed help more, acted as the wake-up call that Webb needed. It was the slap in the face that Rabb, with great patience and restraint, refrained from doing.
"I'll be there to help you," Rabb added. The loyalty and commitment, and indeed the friendship displayed in the simple offer acted in a way that nothing to this point had been able to. The statement put something within reach that Webb had thought truly lost. Hope. He now felt a sense of hope that he would successfully put this behind him, that there was a real chance of being able to live with what he had done.
The pianist made his way back to the shiny black instrument as the waitress brought the two friends their meals. Another beer was ordered by each, and they continued to talk well into the night. The Navy man, happy that his friend seemed better about the terrible ordeal in Rome, the CIA man knowing how lucky he was to have so many special friends in his life, men who cared about his career, his sanity, his soul.
This night would linger in each man's memory. It would stand out as a significant change in the direction of their relationship, a tightening of the bonds of two people who were so different in background and temperament, but so similar in their sense of duty and commitment and single-minded love of country. It was a day that had made an indelible mark in their ability to open up to each other and to trust in each other.
Their many differences, from this day forward, would no longer be the distinguishing factor in their work together and in their friendship. This day had indeed become a turning point.
The End.