Agreed Sunday

Perez liked his sea-food, which was great for someone who worked in the Caribbean so much. But he had now, after so many un-afflicted years, found something to disagree with. He was laid up in his hotel room looking down on the pool. The pain in his stomach was excruciating and he had to wretch frequently. Usually, even with quite severe symptoms, he would never take sick leave. But today there was no chance at all of 'grinning and bearing it'. He sat by the telephone thinking of who to call and ordered mushroom soup to settle his innards.

What was particularly difficult was that most of the operation he had put together would operate in the dark. Metaphorically and in reality. Small players were each briefed in small tasks, all pleased to take the Yankee dollar. Theoretically, no one person could add up even a quarter of the puzzle with three-fourths of the pieces.

The phone rang. "Hello?" He never liked to give a name when he picked up the receiver.

"Perez?" It was his line manager from the export warehouse. "Sorry to hear you're not so well."

"It must have been the salad. Normally I can eat anything that has a shell or a tentacle, as near to raw as it comes from the water. Someone must have stuck a lettuce leaf in the dressing to mess with me."

"Yes. That sounds like a real problem." Fowler was not picking up on the humor. "I'm a bit concerned. How is the Front Story affected by this?" Perez's more imaginative colleagues liked to call their operations 'stories'. Most operatives had a main or 'front' story to work on. If they had time (or talent) they could develop a secondary or 'background' story for future resourcing.

"Don't worry. All the elements are already wound up and ticking over. There's nothing more for me to do."

"That's good. When do we get out materials in Galveston?"

"Two weeks. Should be Friday next."

"Good, good. I'll write that up at the next meeting as ongoing. One other little matter then…"

"What's that?" Perez felt a little wave of chill pass over his already cold forehead.

"Are you developing a 'back' story at the moment?"

Perez could only go for the truth. He was too ill to be clever. And there was no point in developing an operation secretively and then expecting a big check-book to be opened for it.

"Uh, yes. A small thing up north. It doesn't really figure as a Back Story yet. A few observations. Some contacts to work-up. Probably one big paragraph if you needed a description."

"Who's helping you on this? We're not totally sure you're keeping inside our usual guidelines."

"I looked up an old colleague from med school. She's got credentials, but no connection to any of our businesses. I thought it would be good to work the usual routine. Let her find us a few facts and then maybe she would fall in to further exploration without much direction from me."

The voice at the end paused and appeared to ponder. There was a sigh.

"Is this a Dr. Scully that you're talking about?" Perez left his own heavy pause.

"Yes. Of course." Now he didn't know what was happening. "Is this a problem? I did some checking. She's on back-room duties, cold case admin, and the odd autopsy. An ideal choice; bored; easy to tempt with something more interesting…"

"I think we may have an issue with jurisdiction." The voice got quieter.

"When did we ever care about what the Feds thought about anything?" he blurted out in some surprise.

There was a pause which became a silence. Despite the muted phone at the other end, Perez thought he could hear some tiny squawks which indicated a muffled conversation.

"Are all your files up to date and complete, Perez?"

"Of course. I can answer any questions you might have…"

"And are your own papers in the hotel safe or the room safe?"

Perez always heard himself say untrue words slowly. "The. Room. Safe."

"Please hold the line," said Fowler. The line went silent.

Alarmed, Perez rolled onto the floor and grabbed his pants, pulling them up and dropping his bare feet into the shoes in one motion.

"Fowler? I can get on a plane home if you really need me to." The phone remained silent. He wasn't sure now if the line was dead.

There was a knock at the door.

Perez felt a heavy pain thud thru his belly. He knew, it would be difficult to run or struggle with a determined intruder. Ironically, his gun was the only thing which was in the room-safe, cozy at the back of the closet behind his suits.

"Hello?" He fake-groaned like an office junior with a hangover.

"Room Service," came the cheerful Creole accent. Probably a woman.

"I'm sure," he mumbled to himself. "Leave it outside," he fake-groaned.

The door opened with clicks and fumbles. Perez stumbled to the blinds and supported himself on the wall. A no-nonsense lady in hotel attire had walked in.

"They said you're sick. Soup?" She seemed unaware of her intrusiveness or generally rude manner.

"Put it on the table," he mumbled, unsure what role he was now playing. He stood still and fumbled in his pocket. There was a loose greenback in his hand which he waved at the woman.

"Off you go. Bring more later." She took the stretched out note and left without looking at it. The door slammed heavily.

Perez stared at the soup and steadied his breathing. The phone still hung off the hook, the receiver buried in the carpet. He slowly moved back to the chair and picked up the phone. Fowler had hung up, or been disconnected.

What was his next move? Who to call next?

"Dana?"

"Carlos?"

"Where are you?" he asked carefully. He turned the soup over with the spoon, carefully inspecting its beige consistency.

"I'm on my way to Lake Peary. Just as we discussed. Is everything alright?" She seemed wary.

He thought carefully, looking at his warped reflection in the spoon.

"Yes," he said. "Everything. Is. Alright."