Friday 6:15 p.m.

"So, Liv, don't you have a date?" Amanda Kirkland asked in her nasal Brooklyn accent. Amanda had not changed a bit since she was fourteen. She was still wearing the most stylish and revealing cloths. She still had the body to pull it off. And she still had a way of making every other girl in the room feel inadequate because they did not posses those qualities.

"Ah, he couldn't make it," Olivia said coolly. She'd spent a long time thinking about how she was going to answer this particular question. Saying that she had no boyfriend would generate looks of pity, offers to be set up with various men, and, most likely, a rumor that she was a lesbian. "Had to work."

"Bobby is the same way," Jenien Lovitz said with exaggerated empathy. Jenien had always been Amanda's best friend and shadow. After graduating from St. Agnes's, they'd both gone to City College in New York and, apparently, married two frat boys who were best friends. From their discussion earlier, Olivia has surmised that Amanda's family had bought a yacht, while Jenien's family had a place in the Hamptons, so the two families did not have to sacrifice any luxury. "He's in securities, you know, and it's like the markets never close. On the fourth of July we were supposed to go sailing and I said to him, 'Bobby, the kids want to go sailing, Amanda and Kevin are waiting for us!' and he said 'I'm working' and I said 'It's the f-ing fourth' ('cause I don't swear anymore, because of the kids) but I nearly said it, you know, the real word, and I said 'the f-ing markets are closed!' and he said 'not in China!' Oh. Em. Gee! I mean, really, OMG! Men!"

Amanda had laughed throughout the story. Carroll Wildman, who'd been part of their clutch of conversation for several minutes, but had not gotten a word in edgewise, also seemed to find the story, or perhaps the delivery, humorous. Olivia, who had herself worked through the fourth-of-July for the past five years, managed to deliver a polite chuckle.

So far, the night had been as socially painful as she'd expected, but with none of the sentimental sweetness and softening of time, which she'd also expected. None of her old classmates had become less rich, privileged, or annoying. Even the campus itself had disappointed her. The main building had gone through a major renovation; all the old dorm rooms were now modern classrooms. The decrepit home ec./humanities building from the 50s had been torn down, and a new dormitory had been added to the campus. The tree she used to climb and study in its branches was gone, sacrificed for a tennis court. The classrooms where she'd excelled in German and math had been converted into administrative offices. The always-cold, crowded bedroom that she'd shared with three other girls throughout her stay was now a computer lab. It seemed like the only thing that had not changed was the main hall, where they were now mingling with cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, and the old chapel, where, every week, she'd been forced to sit through a Mass she could not participate in. She'd heard they'd renovated the inside, changing the high alter to a low alter and moving the administrative offices out of the second floor to create a display space for the school's valuable collection of colonial religious embroidery. But Olivia had already decided she would not go into the chapel – or anywhere near the bell tower and its one terrible memory.

"The thing is," Amanda said, once they were all done laughing at whatever had been funny in Jenien's story. "Kevin is so the opposite. I'm like, 'Honey I thought you had a meeting today' and he's like 'A golf meeting!'"

Jenien laughed at this as heartily as Amanda had laughed at her story. Carroll seemed slightly less amused, but still laughed. Olivia, much to her relief, saw a way out.

"Oh, look," she said. "It's Frau Hoerr. If you'll excuse me."

Without bothering with any further pleasantries, and not waiting to see if they were offered, she broke away from the group and walked towards her old German teacher.

While Olivia had done well in primary school, she'd never excelled. Her natural intelligence and her excellent memory had made most grade school activities too simple. She knew her spelling words the first day, glancing at her times tables once was enough for her to pass the test. Even after she'd transferred to St. Agnes's, the academics hadn't challenged her. What she couldn't get by natural ability didn't seem worth getting. Was a B+ really that much worse than an A? Her mother didn't seem to think so. The teachers didn't seem to think so. Well, most of the teachers. Frau Hoerr, whose German class Olivia entered in ninth grade, was different.

Naturally, Olivia aced the vocabulary tests. It was rote memorization, and she was good at that. But when it came to conjugation, creating sentences, and expressing ideas, she was less apt. When she got a C in German on her mid-term report card, her self-confidence came crashing down. The one thing she'd felt sure of in the nasty, frightening world of an all girls' boarding school was her ability to get good grades. "It's not fair," she's half sobbed, half screamed at Frau Hoerr. "On the mid-term, every one of the words was spelled right. I labeled the map perfectly. I made a few mistakes conjugating and you give me a C?"

"I gave you a C because you think in English," Frau Hoerr said simply. "If you tried to think in Deutch, you would have gotten an A-."

"How do you know how I was thinking?" Olivia demanded.

"Your sentences are always written with English grammar and sentence structure," Frau Hoerr said. "And, more importantly, with an American point of view."

"So?" Olivia said. "I'm an American. I'm proud of it!"

"Which is as it should be," Frau Hoerr said. "But, in my class, I expect students to try to understand the material, not just repeat it. If I thought you understood anything about being German, about speaking and hearing German, you would get a better grade. But, you don't try. I will not reward someone who does not try.

Olivia starred at her, "You can't change how you think."

Frau Hoerr stared back. "Try really thinking," she advised. "See what changes."

"I hope it's my grade," Olivia muttered.

"So do I," Frau Hoerr had said.

Olivia did as she was told, and actually thought about German. She thought about how the words sounded, how the letters looked together, how food tasted, how the landscape looked, how it would feel to wear a dirndl, and how thousands of years of history had colored that country. She started reading the German picture books Frau Hoerr had in her classroom, and soon moved up to the comic books. While Olivia could see that America and Germany had much in common, she was amazed to discover that life there was different. She was somewhat surprised that people who looked very much like her, clear skin, blue eyes, blond hair, could be so very different. The more she learned, the more she wanted to learn. By the end of the first semester, she had pulled the C up to a B+. By the end of term, she was at the head of the class.

While studying German had been deeply enjoyable, and being fluent in the language had certainly aided her career, Olivia understood that what Frau Hoerr had really taught her was to expand her perspective. In that German class, Olivia had learned that the world can be vastly different from what you think it is. If you accept things at face value, if you do not dig a little deeper, look a little closer, you will never understand the world. Her life was defined by that lesson, and she felt she had to express her gratitude to the woman who'd taught it to her.

"Frau Hoerr," Olivia said, breaking into a group of teachers. "Excuse me, but I . . ."

The German teacher's face lit up as soon as she saw her former pupil. Olivia didn't get a chance to explain anything; the older woman stepped across the circle and embraced Olivia with a warmth that Olivia was unaccustomed too.

"Miss Dunham!" Frau Hoerr said. "My prize student! I had not dared hope you would come. It is so very good to see you!"

"It's good to see you too, Frau," Olivia said, returning the hug with genuine affection. "I hope you got my post cards."

"Beautiful, yes," the teacher said, pulling way so she could look at her student. "I show them to every one of my classes. Study hard, I say, and you too can have an exciting career full of travel."

Olivia laughed warmly at the accurate, but deeply misleading, description of her job. "I hope they listen to you," she said. "I couldn't have done any of the things I did if I hadn't listened to your advice."

"Oh, I doubt that," Frau Heorr said, with her typical German modesty. "But, you must tell me all about your life," she continued, hooking her arm in Olivia's and walking her no-longer-young student away from the group of teachers and over to a table where they could sit. "You know I live for my students - now that you're old enough I can confess I live through them too. Tell me about the FBI and being young and single in a big town. Humor me."

"Ok, well . . ." Olivia started, happy to have the opportunity to please her teacher, but unsure what she could possibly divulge.

"Ah, ah, ah," Frau Hoerr interjected. "Auf Deutsch."

Olivia's smile got bigger. This was well worth the annoyance of her classmates and the pain of seeing the bell tower. This was why she'd come.

Friday 8:40 p.m.

"You sure?" Peter asked the very-young women manning the check-in table. "Queen. Q-u-e-e-n."

"I know, sir," she said, flipping through the box of nametags in front of her. "But it's not here. Not under Peter. Not under Queen."

"Could you just go in and get Olivia for me?" Peter said, managing to sound casually annoyed. "I know she'd clear this up."

"I don't know who Olivia is," the girl said. She seemed totally overwhelmed by the situation. Peter guessed that she was one of the students, perhaps working over break to get reduced tuition. He further guessed that she was not one of the brighter students.

"Dunham," Peter supplied quickly. "Olivia Dunham."

"I mean, I don't know her," the girl clarified. "A lot of people came through all at once and . . ."

"Who did you say you were looking for?" asked an older woman, who happened to be walking past the table at the time. She was dressed expensively, if not well, in a long modest shift dress and a shapeless jacket. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a bun and her think lips were accented with too-red lipstick. Peter pegged her as one of the teachers.

"Olivia Dunham," the girl said. "He says he's her date, but I don't have his name."

The teacher looked at Peter, clearly surprised, "Her date?"

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said. "I had to take the TGV from Brussels to Paris just so I could catch the Red-eye - then after all that I get lost in the woods about 20 minutes south of here. Can you believe it?"

The teacher continued to look at Peter quizzically, but still, she smiled. "Of course. I believe Miss. Dunham is at table nine, with the Holds, McMillans, and Miss Shutlz. I'll show you where they are."

"Thank you," Peter said, as she turned and opened the door for the hall. "Oh, please, allow me," he said, as he took the door, holding it open for the teacher.

Peter followed her into the hall, trying to take in all the nuances of the architecture, decorations, and the people who filled it. It was good-sized rectangular room with high ceilings and a raised dais in the front. Clearly, it was meant to copy the dining rooms in English schools, where the teachers ate in the front, and the students sat in rows laid out before them. {MBE- I'm pretty sure you meant 'sat' so I fixed it.} The chandeliers were new and filled the hall with a warm glow, though they were styled as if they were old candelabras. The wood floor was old, scuffed, and worn smooth. The back half of the room was empty except for a few young girls (more students, Peter assumed) acting as the serving staff. It was set up with a bar, hors d'œuvre buffet, and sprinkled with cocktail tables. Peter assumed that these had been set up for the reunion. In the front of the room, the traditional long straight tables had been replaced with large round ones that accommodated six adults comfortably. Each table was set formally, with what looked like very good china bearing the school seal.

The woman leading Peter wove her way through the tables quickly, and Peter had to be spry to keep up with her. The students waiting tables parted in front of her but did not extend the same courtesy to him.

Eventually, they reached the table where Olivia sat. Five other people surrounded her, two men and thee women, who were all talking excitedly, even Olivia. For a split second, Peter regretted barging into Olivia's privet life - forcing the wired and scary into the warm and nostalgic. But he couldn't forget the sound of desperation in that voice. A voice that probably belonged to someone in the room.

"Miss Dunham," the teacher said crisply, but not nearly loud enough to be heard over the din in the room. Still, she was heard by all the women at the table, and all conversation stopped.

"Mrs. Colbert," Olivia said nervously. Peter couldn't help but be amused that a woman who could stare down a mass murderer would be unnerved by a former professor.

"You're date seems to have arrived," Mrs. Colbert said, sounding extremely bewildered by that fact. "Why isn't there a place for him at the table?"

"There must be some mistake," Olivia said, "I didn't . . ."

"I'm sorry Liv," Peter said, stepping forward and pulling everyone's attention away from Mrs. Colbert. Next to this former teacher he had been, apparently, invisible. "I know I said I couldn't come, but when Gudshtine canceled our meeting in Vienna I realized I could make it. I tried to call, but you know how hard it is to get a single in Normandy."

"Peter," was all Olivia could think to say - or, considering the confused but shrewd look in her eye, all she felt safe saying.

"I'm sorry, everyone," Peter said to the table at large, "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"I'm sure we could make room," one of the men said, scooting a little closer to the woman next to him. "Hon, who would we talk to to get another place setting?"

"Gosh, I don't know," the woman replied. "I think Mrs. Hurst is the big organizing guru. But I'm pretty sure she's in the kitchen."

"Yeah," Olivia said briskly, pushing herself away from the table. "I think I saw her in there. Peter and I will go ask her if he can join us."

There was a general chorus of consensus to this plan, and as Olivia walked to the side of the room where there were large double doors leading to the kitchen. Peter hastened to follow her.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed under her breath as soon as they'd gotten beyond the bustle of the tables. "And why did you tell people you were my boyfriend?"

"I'm sorry," Peter said in an equally low voice. "I understand that upsets you, but I didn't think they'd let me in otherwise."

"I didn't want them to let you in," Olivia insisted.

Peter ignored her, "You got a creepy phone call," he said. "It came from here, inside the school. It said 'we are going to kill her.'"

"What do you mean I got a phone call?" Olivia asked.

"At your desk," Peter explained. "I was working at your desk and . . ."

"And you answered my phone?"

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I wasn't thinking. But, I think, it's probably a good thing that I did."

"I can take care of myself," she told him coolly. It was obvious by the dark look in her eyes that she was more angry at him for intruding into her life than she was worried about a death threat. "I certainly don't need you to protect me."

"It mentioned Cortexiphan," Peter said, somehow making his voice even lower. "And I didn't come to protect you, I came here to warn you."

Olivia stared at him. He could see conflicting thoughts and emotions battling it out behind her eyes. The gravity of the situation was not lost on her; still she loathed the intrusion of her dangerous and messy current life into the safety and order of her past.

"The message said someone here tried to kill you once," Peter continued. "It said they'd try again."

"No one ever tried to kill me," Olivia said.

"To be fair, Olivia, you were a kid," Peter said. "You might not have known about it."

"I think I'd know if someone tried to kill me," she insisted.

"Not if the adults didn't tell you," Peter said. "Kids, even smart kids, don't know how to interpret a lot of what adults do. You assume it's normal. You assume it's right. I know that if I was running a boarding school and I found out someone was trying to kill one of my students, I'd keep it hushed up. I certainly wouldn't want the student to know she was in danger."

Olivia broke eye contact, glancing behind Peter at the throng of her fellow students and former teachers. She didn't look scared, but she did look very, very concerned.

"Did you contact Boyles?" she asked.

"I thought about it," Peter said. "But he would have called in the police, if not the FBI, and everybody here would have known that something crazy is going on in your life. I didn't want to put you through that."

Something in her eyes changed. She was still mad at him, not just for this, but for everything he'd done in the past two months - perhaps she always would be. Still, her expression softened. She may have been disgusted by him, but she was grateful for this gesture.

"Besides," he said, speaking earnestly, but still trying to flatter. "I know you can take care of yourself."

"All right, thank you," she said crisply. "But, why did you lie about your name and where you came from?"

"I've found that, when I don't know what I'm getting into, it's safer to be someone else," Peter told her honestly, adding, with a touch of humor, "And, I wanted you to show-up these prep-school girls."

"You did?"

"No one would be impressed with a MIT drop-out," Peter said. "I can leave after dinner - say I have a meeting in L.A., or something."

Olivia took a deep breath and looked, once again, at all the people in the dining room behind him. "And who are you supposed to be?" she asked, ignoring his offer to leave.

"Peter Queen," Peter said, trying not to smile, knowing that he hadn't won the right to stay with her and watch her back just yet. He handed her a business card bearing that moniker. "Merchant in fine wine and spirits."

"What will you do if someone wants to buy something?" she asked, handing the card back to him.

"Tell them to call the office during business hours," Peter said. "Queen's Spirits is a real company, headed by a real Peter Queen. I buy a bottle of bourbon off him every Christmas. It's my way of thanking him for the use of his name."

Olivia nodded. She almost looked amused, though her mind was still focused on the problem at hand. "Nice. Someone's trying to kill me, and I have a liquor salesman watching my back."

"So," Peter said hopefully, "you're not going to send me back to Boston, then?"

She looked up at him, seemed to brace herself for what she was about to say, and said, "No. I'll need help to figure out what's going on here. If someone is really trying to kill me, they're sure to go underground the second a badge shows up."

"But a wine merchant won't raise any eyebrows," Peter said, taking a deep berth and trying not to smile at his tiny triumph.

"Exactly," Olivia said dryly. "But, you have to follow my lead."

"You're the boss," Peter agreed.

"And just because you are pretending to be my date, does not mean we have anything more than a professional relationship."

"You didn't have to tell me that," Peter said.

"But I am telling you," she said, looking him in the eyes. She hadn't done that since she'd told him she didn't want to be with him - and the significance was not lost on Peter. He met her gaze, eager to comply with whatever she said next. "I hate that you're here," Olivia said frankly, "Because, right now, where you go, she goes. And this was the one place in the world I thought I could get away from her."

"Olivia I'm . . ." Peter started, but she wouldn't let him get to the 'so sorry.'

"Still," she pressed. "You are the only person in the world I can trust to be discreet, and alert, and frankly, brave for me. I wish I could go to someone else but . . ."

"I won't let you down," Peter promised.

"I know you won't," Olivia said. Her anger had ebbed and she came across as simply stoic, but Peter knew her better than that. He could see behind her determination to a woman whose heart was breaking - possibly without hope of repair. Worse still, he could see that he was the one breaking it.

To be continued . . . .