Hey all, apologies again for another delay. These chapters are taking a little bit more time because I have to be careful to lay the right groundwork for the rest of the plot, as we'll be getting into JTF-12 and Ian Doyle stuff very soon, and I want it to align more or less with the show. I'll try and get another update in over the weekend. Your feedback has been amazing. I hope you continue to enjoy!

Brussels, Belgium

Twenty minutes dragged by. Then thirty. Emily heard each second tick from the handsome black desk clock which was, in her opinion, unnecessarily loud. She'd no idea what was taking the Assistant Station Chief so long, but if it was much longer, her nails would be bitten down to the cuticles. Emily wasn't able to recall exactly when in the last few years she'd picked up this particularly bad habit, but now it was almost inevitable that intense stress would lead to an all-out self-inflicted assault on her nails. She hadn't been particularly stressed when she first arrived at the Brussels Office and was waived in for her briefing. But the intervening minutes she'd spent waiting gave her time to think, and the more time she had to think, the more she realized that she had no clue what she was getting herself into. She'd never served on a joint task force before. Never worked on any assignment that wasn't entirely or predominantly staffed by U.S. agencies. And Jack Peterson hadn't exactly given her a lot of details on what she'd be doing.

In an attempt to try and take her mind off her anxious uncertainty, she'd subconsciously started taking stock of the Assistant Station Chief's Office and profiling the occupant, who a nameplate identified as "Alan K. Shirer." His mahogany desk was almost completely clear, which mean he was either lazy and did no work, or was a total neat freak. Even the most brilliant of lazy people didn't make Assistant Section Chief, so it had to be the latter. This was further confirmed by the fact that the books on the shelf behind the desk were organized by color, then by size.

This all makes the man's tardiness strange. People this neat don't tolerate lateness, from themselves or from others. This actually makes Emily forgive him for making her wait. He wouldn't be doing it if he didn't have a good reason.

Whatever it was would soon be clear. Shirer arrived at long last, fastidiously dressed in a white Oxford and navy tie, though his slightly-graying, reddish hair was a tad disheveled. He'd definitely been busy.

"Agent Prentiss. Alan Shirer. So sorry to keep you waiting," he said, firmly shaking Emily's hand while holding a stack of files in the other. A slight tic in his square jaw betrayed his irritation with the delay, as did his hurried voice. "In order to brief you I had to be fully briefed myself, and the information I wanted took far too long."

Emily pitied the agents who'd kept him waiting.

"No trouble," Emily insisted.

"May I ask exactly how much you know about this new assignment?" Shirer asked, settling behind his desk.

"I know it involves profiling terrorists, and that's about it. I found out about the whole thing less than 72 hours ago."

"Well, hopefully I can provide a little bit of clarification, though not as much as I'd like because, I think you should know from the outset, you won't be reporting to me, per se. I'm only your Agency contact because the task force is primarily operating from here, but it's not an Agency-led force. SIS and Interpol are taking the lead. An Agent Clyde Easter of SIS will be your team leader."

"So, I'm being pimped out to the Europeans?" Emily had meant it as a joke, but wished she hadn't said anything. Shirer was too straight-laced of a guy to take well to a joke about pimping. Sure enough, his eyebrows shot up and he was looking at her with a mixture of shock, confusion, and mild distaste.

"That's not really how you see it?" he asked. "If you're really opposed, I'm sure we can find you another…"

"No, it's fine, I'm just kidding," Emily assured him. He breathed I sigh of relief. "What do we know about this Easter?"

"Everything we have is summarized in the file," Shirer said, handing Emily one of the manila folders he'd carried into the room. Emily took a glance at the personnel photo. Easter didn't fit the Cambridge stereotype, at least not at first glance. He was handsome, but rugged-looking, his blonde hair not-exactly kempt. But there was a deep intelligence in his blue gaze.

"Short version: He's 44. Standout at Cambridge with top honors in neuropsychology. He was on a medical track, then changed course and went straight into the Royal Marines as an officer. He served with NATO forces in the Balkans where he was decorated for bravery while serving with a special operations force in Bosnia in 1995. He made the transition from the marines to SIS sometime in 1998. We believe MI-6 considers him their top psychological analyst. Rumored to be a bit intense, but highly loyal."

"Skill set and the leadership background," Emily remarked. "I see why he was tapped to head it up."

"He has a fellow Brit on the team," Shirer continued, handing her another folder. "Sean McCallister. Scottish. Top of his glass at St. Andrews. Also a Royal Marine veteran. He went into domestic intelligence with MI5. Specializes in criminal networks – terrorists, mafia, and the like. Made the switch to Interpol in 1996. Easter is the team leader, but McCallister was a major player in putting the idea together. Interpol's pushing for a much bigger role in multinational anti-terrorist intelligence gathering. McCallister's playing a big roll in that. A bit more mysterious than the others, we suspect he's done undercover work in the past but can't confirm."

"Well, a wild card always keeps things interesting at least," she commented, skimming through the particularly thin file.

"Third team member is Tsia Mosely of France. You won't find too much in here because she's the youngest member of the JTF. Two years younger than you. She's an up and coming expert on terrorist recruitment and networking over the Internet. Did her doctoral level work on it at the Sorbonne. She only joined the DCRI about a year ago, so she's green in the field, but considered one of their top minds."

"Finally there's Jeremy Wolff, German BND," Shirer said, giving over the last of the files. "You'll notice we have a little more on him because, like you, he comes from a prominent family. His father is from old Bavarian money and was a deputy finance minister under Chancellor Kohl. Unlike you, or at least unlike what I've heard about you, he very much flaunts it. Not a terrible snob, but seen as a bit haughty."

"Is he a nepotism hire?" Emily asked, concerned. She didn't like the idea of working with somebody who was unqualified, it was too dangerous in this field. On top of that, she had always busted her ass twice as hard as she needed to, lest she face any charge that she was a nepotism hire. All things considered, Emily suspected she hated nepotism twice as much as the average person.

"By all accounts, no," Shirer answered. "He earned a medical degree with honors and was tapped as a top researcher in psychiatric medicine before he decided that he was more interested in criminal pathologies and went into intelligence work. His father probably helped guide him to the right people, but out informants view him as plenty capable. He's just also very much into money. Again, everything I'm telling you and more is in the file. You report to the JTF in two days time. Before your report, study those files, remember as much as you can, and destroy them. Even our allies don't need to know how much we know about their people."

"I assume they'll have similar intelligence on me?"

"As much as I'd like to believe we do a better job protecting our agents than they do, probably yes," Shirer answered. "I know for a fact that they're aware you were profiling terrorists in Afghanistan. We had to share that part of your résumé so they'd be satisfied of your qualifications. But they don't know the specifics of where you were or what precisely you were involved in, and we didn't share any information about your prior assignments. You are not to share any of that information either."

"Understood," Emily acknowledged. "As far as this assignment, what exactly is it that we'll be doing. I'm still not clear on that."

"JTF-12 has two mandates. It is envisioned primarily as a consultative body to assist Europe's domestic agencies. After 9/11, nearly every agency in the West has dramatically increased anti-terrorism operations, but often without a plant to do so effectively. There is a very real concern that valuable time and resources are wasted targeting innocent people while real threats slip through the cracks. That's where the JTF comes in. Already a dozen domestic agencies in Europe have agreed to send JTF information on targets of anti-terrorism surveillance. Your job is to separate the real deal from the imagined threats. Determine who fits the psychological profile of a terrorist or potential terrorist versus who is innocent, or, if not completely innocent, a traditional criminal rather than a terrorist threat. That will allow them to more effectively allocate resources. Secondarily, when you identify legitimate terrorist threats, you may be asked by the host countries to take a larger roll. Host countries will still handle the arrests and prosecutions, but you may be asked to assist in developing takedown strategies, handle interrogations, things like that. It's my understanding that it will be Agent Easter's decision to determine which cases you get more involved with."

Emily was actually starting to like the sound of this assignment. It combined the fast-paced, high-intensity field work that excited her with the more deliberative, mentally-stimulating document intensive analytics that hadn't had the opportunity to do much of since graduate school, and that the nerdy side of her sort of missed. She just had one burning question left.

"So, what are the buts?"

"Come again?"

"The buts," Emily repeated. "I've been in the Agency long enough to know that you aren't going to loan agents to other countries without some stipulations."

"True," Shirer granted her. "There are some restrictions. Mostly the obvious – if any order you receive from JTF conflicts with an order from the CIA, CIA prevails, don't reveal any confidential information we haven't authorized you to disclose, and so on and so forth. We're not going to ask you to tell us everything that goes on with JTF, you're not there to spy on our allies, but we do require that if you stumble on to anything you deem an immediate threat to American security, you pass it on to me immediately. We also don't want you performing any tasks for JTF that you haven't been certified for with the Agency. For example, you're a certified interrogator, so you can perform interrogations with JTF. You aren't a certified explosives expert, so we don't want them to have you checking out bomb fragments. And we reserve the right to veto any assignments that have you embedded in any one location in the field for more than two weeks."

"Sounds reasonable enough, anything else?"

"That's the gist of it," Shirer said. "Now the fun stuff." He picked up the phone on his desk and hit a single button. Emily couldn't make out the sound on the other end, but somebody must have picked up. "This is Shirer, you can send Corelli up now. Thank you," was all he said before hanging up. He then extracted a large yellow envelope from the top drawer of his desk. From the envelope he pulled two sets of keys. He slid the first set across the desk to Emily.

"Your is parked in spot #45 in the underground garage. I know Opels aren't the sexiest car on the market, but we wanted something inconspicuous, and we get bonus points from the brass for dealing with American-owned companies."

Emily couldn't even remember the last time she owned a car. She wasn't about to be too picky.

"I think you'll fine this more to your liking," Shirer slid Emily the second set of keys, which was attached to a small piece of paper with an address.

"You guys swung a loft in the center of the city?" Emily asked, impressed.

"We did. We rent it out through a fictitious company when agents aren't using it. It more than pays for itself. Your utilities and everything will be covered for you. Just don't abuse it. And try now to abuse these either, our accountants are hawks" he said, sliding and envelope and two cards to Emily. One debit card and one credit card in her name, connected to a Belgian bank. "Account information is in the envelope. Deposits are made the first of every month. There's a 100,000 Euro max on the credit card. The tab is picked up for you. Also in the envelope is your cover story. If anybody outside of the Agency of JTF asks, you're here with the U.S. Mission to the European Union as an interpreter and advisor from the Defense Department. The Mission knows this is your cover and knows to contact us if your name comes up. The last thin in the envelope is a phone number. It's a direct line to me in case you get in trouble. You're to memorize and destroy the contents of that envelope as soon as possible."

"Understood," Emily agreed. Posing as a member of a diplomatic mission, if only Mother could see me now, she thought, with gleeful satisfaction.

Two hard taps on the door interrupted the conversation.

"Come in," Shirer answered. A man who looked to be in his late fifties entered the office, holding yet another envelope.

"Ah, Agent Prentiss, meet Ben Corelli. One of our best forgers. He'll have the rest of your documents."

"Nice to meet you, Agent Prentiss," Corelli said. He was soft spoken. "Let me show you what I've made for you."

Corelli pulled out two passports and a smaller ID card. These might have just been "documents" to Shirer, but Emily could tell by the way Corelli gingerly and deliberately laid them out on the desk that they meant much more to him. They were his works of art.

"Two passports. One American, one EU in case you need quicker access at an airport or train station. Obviously you have your own American Passport, but these contain small chips allowing the Agency to track your last known location in case you get in trouble. Nobody who isn't looking for it will know it's there. I've whittled down the difference to these and the genuine article to less than a two millimeter variation in thickness," Corelli said with a quiet pride. Emily had to hand it to him, he had replicated the photo page of her actual passport to a tee. She made a mental note to make sure not to get them mixed up. As far as she could tell, the EU passport was also indistinguishable from the genuine article.

"The ID card is an exact replica of those used by the members of the Mission to the EU," Corelli explained. "No fancy technology in it. It's just in case you need to verify your backstop story. It also works as a handy little diplomatic immunity tool if you get stopped by any traffic cops," he added mischievously.

"Which we prefer you not do," Shirer interjected disapprovingly. "That will be all Corelli."

"These are perfect," Emily told the forger, impressed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything else."

"We won't," Shirer interjected again. Emily distinctly detected dislike, even distrust between the Assistant Station Chief and the forger. "Thank you Corelli."

Corelli gave Emily a small nod and smile and left without acknowledging Shirer.

"I apologize for the awkwardness," Shirer said after satisfied that Corelli was safely away. "Corelli's the best there is, but he and I have clashed over a certain disregard he has for rules."

"Yeah?"

"He was caught a little over a year ago forging fake identities for our Ambassador's sons so they could buy alcohol. Not terribly harmful, but highly embarrassing if you're the one fielding the angry phone call from the Embassy. And it's always concerning to know one of your people is working outside his portfolio, even if it is for youthful hijinks. I'd have fired him if the idea of him working for somebody else didn't scare me so much."

"I see," Emily said. Her first thought was that Corelli must be really good if a guy like Shirer wouldn't fire him for something so brazen. Her second thought was that she wished Corelli'd been around to forge convincing IDs when she was a teenager. She'd been busted more times than she could remember, though she was sure Elizabeth could recount every incident vividly.

"Anyway, I digress," Shirer said. "Everything should be in order now. The car is outside. Directions to the flat are under the seat. On Wednesday at 10 o'clock, you will report to JTF at Number 12 Avenue Auderghem and identify yourself using the EU Mission ID card Corelli gave you. They'll be expecting you. Other than that, memorize and destroy everything as instructed and good luck to you. We'll be checking periodically, and you can always call if you need assistance."

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Emily said, gathering all of her new possessions.

"Good luck, Agent Prentiss."

It was raining and near dark by the time Emily pulled her car out of the underground garage and onto the streets of Brussels. The poor weather and the fact that it was a Monday night meant the streets were largely clear. Emily welcomed this small miracle; it had been almost a year since she'd driven anywhere, and that was back in the States. Within twenty minutes, she'd pulled in front of the latest abode she'd try and convince herself to call home. It was easily the nicest place the Agency had ever put her up in, not a concrete block in Kabul or the bare-bones lodgings in South America were much competition. With two stories, wood floors, full kitchen, and fireplace, the Brussels townhouse was a downright mansion compared to pretty much everywhere else. Somebody had even done a good two weeks' worth of grocery shopping already.

"Damn, I should have tried to get assigned here sooner," Emily muttered to herself. After dragging her suitcase to the second-floor bedroom, Emily made herself a sandwich, started a fire, and began to study the pages of information Shirer had given her. She had a good memory, but it was times like these she wished she was one of those people with an eidetic memory. As it turned out, there wasn't much to memorize. She put the emergency contact number to memory with relative ease, and the files on the other JTF-12 agents didn't contain much useful information to add to what Shirer had already told her. Though she was interested to note that the CIA suspected Clyde Easter had been with British troops in Afghanistan last year. Depending on the timing, he and Emily might have been within miles of one another.

By the time Emily was done re-reading the files for the fifth time, lest she miss any important details, it was well past midnight. Her eyes were bleary with exhaustion. She hadn't had the chance to rest since leaving Germany in the morning. Before turning in for the night, Emily gathered the files that needed to be destroyed, and chucked them into the fire. She stayed awake long enough to make sure every last document was incinerated. By the time the roaring flames at last died to glowing embers, she had collapsed in exhaustion onto the sofa.

Two Days Later

Number 12 Auderghem was a well-maintained, but inconspicuous gray building of five stories. It paled in comparison to the British Embassy next door. Nobody who wasn't looking for it would think twice about walking by, which, Emily knew, was precisely the point. She counted at least four surveillance cameras at the front entrance. A slightly faded brass plaque on the door read: "Private Offices of Her Majesty's Government, No Public Admittance" in English, French, and Dutch. Ignoring this very British admonishment, Emily heaved open the rather heavy wooden door and found herself in a small entrance lobby manned by a guard behind what Emily knew was bulletproof glass.

"Excuse me, Miss. You can't be in here," the guard said. If this was where Emily was going to be working, she desperately hoped this wasn't the only security. Visible acne still dotted the face of the gangly guard. The crew cut that was supposed to make him look neat and tough only served to make him seem more insubstantial. Emily would be astonished if he was over 20.

"I have an appointment," Emily said, flashing her fresh ID at the young man. "Emily Prentiss, US Mission to the EU."

The guard's eyes flashed a knowing recognition. Good God, somebody needed to teach this kid a poker face, Emily thought.

"Just a moment please," the guard said. He picked up a telephone received and muttered something indiscernible. The doors to the left of the guard booth sprang open. Two heavily-armed and decidedly not insubstantial guards emerged.

"Come along please," one of them stated, in a thick Northern English accent. His statement wasn't rude, but it wasn't a request either. Emily followed the men into yet another small, barren room.

"You armed?"

"Yes," Emily admitted.

"We're gonna need your weapon."

Emily hesitated for a moment, but it was highly unlikely that two British guards were going to gun her down for no reason. She complied, slowly pulling her gun from the holster concealed under her blazer and handing it over.

"That it?" the second guard asked. Welsh, Emily concluded.

"That's it."

"Spread your arms and legs out please."

Emily tried to resist rolling her eyes as she submitted to an annoyingly thorough pat down. She knew they were looking for more than a weapon.

"I'm not wearing a wire," she insisted.

"I'm sure that's true, but if we took everybody's word for it, we'd be quite foolish, wouldn't we? Especially from somebody who's a trained liar," an amused voice said. While Emily was being manhandled, a third man had entered the room. Emily recognized Clyde Easter instantly. She was surprised by how short the decorated war veteran was, though she could tell that he was muscular underneath his black leather jacket.

"Quite the welcoming committee you have here," Emily quipped, after the guards were apparently satisfied she was telling the truth.

"You can return her weapon," Easter instructed the guards. Emily re-holstered the Glock.

"We may be allies but we still like to keep our secrets. And you Americans can be notoriously tricky. Don't worry, our French and German friends got the same treatment. I might even do it to my old chum McCallister when he arrives."

Emily didn't need to be a profiler to know this guy was going to be a cocky piece of work, but she also sensed an unmistakable aura of competence, and maybe even a little fun under the rugged exterior. One thing was certain, he could definitely speak fluent sarcasm.

"Pleasure to meet you, Agent Easter," she quipped.

"Likewise, Agent Prentiss. Welcome to JTF-12."