Charlie glared at his brother. "Why didn't you wake me?" He bit into a sandwich which, at eleven in the morning, was serving as both breakfast and lunch.

Don returned his brother's glare with mild superiority. He looked pointedly at his watch. "Did we oversleep, Chuck?"

"Don—!"

Don grinned. Just like when they were in high school: Charlie would stay up half the night 'working' on whatever problem had taken his fancy, then would oversleep the next day and be dashing around getting ready for school. His kid brother was lucky that their mom was always prepared to drive him in instead of catching the schoolbus, it happened so much. Don remembered the unspoken relief on Mom's face when, senior year, Don had gotten his driver's license and drove them both in with that old Chevy that he'd worked so hard to earn. Although there were a few times when they walked in after the bell…

"Give it a rest, buddy. There's no Principal Morgenstern to mark you late. You get to work at your own pace for a while and you needed the sleep. Besides, it's Sunday."

"Yeah?" Charlie was not ready to be mollified. "Tell that to the NSA, Don. Or this Muzawin guy you're so worried about." He took another ferocious bite, followed it up with a swig of whatever was in his glass. "Tell that to Mildred Finch, who's going to have to find someone to cover my classes tomorrow. You know how she feels about me working for the FBI."

"Yeah, but this isn't the FBI," Don pointed out. "This is the NSA. This is Homeland Security. You trying to tell me that Dr. Finch isn't patriotic? That she doesn't care about the well-being of her country? Charlie, I'm surprised that you have such an unflattering view of your boss."

Charlie opened his mouth. He closed it again, unable to think of any comeback on a moment's notice, something that would suit but wouldn't get him into trouble if repeated in the presence of his boss, his colleagues, or his father. He settled for scowling. "I'm going back to the computer room."

"Sounds good to me." It did; the sooner Charlie solved the cipher, the sooner Don could turn this mess back to the NSA. Don glanced at his watch. "I'll let Colby know to meet us there."

"You don't have to keep following me around like a puppy dog, Don," Charlie complained.

"Beg to differ, Chuck. Regs."

"Don—"

"What, they don't do this at NSA headquarters?"

"No, they don't. They leave me alone to do my work."

"And how many armed guards are there at NSA headquarters, Chuck?"

"What?"

"How many armed guards?" Don repeated innocently. "What, there's a number that you can't quote from off of the top of your head? How many guards are at the various entrances, already protecting your ass from the moment that you walk through the gate and flash your credentials? How many agents are inside, all trained in hand to hand combat just in case somebody nasty gets inside?" He grew serious. "Yes, Charlie, I'm going to keep following you around this damn underground complex, because that's my job: to keep you safe so that you can keep this country safe by doing your thing. And if I'm not doing it, then either David or Colby will be taking my place. Got it?"

Charlie flushed. "Yeah." He turned away, giving himself a moment, and Don saw that his brother still looked exhausted, that the emotional toll of the past two days was still present. He grimaced. Maybe Megan hadn't been able to find any concrete evidence that the attack at Charlie's office had taken place, but Don was looking at all the proof he needed right here in the form of his brother. Charlie didn't necessarily see things the way others did, but it was pretty hard to contradict him when he said, "those two NSA agents fought off three thugs right in front of me." Details could be missed, but not the general concept.

Which meant that it had happened, that someone was out to get Charlie and the code he was working on. Which meant that Don intended to stick like glue to his little brother until he finished cleaning up this mess.


The big screen TV was everything that the NSA had promised that it would be, and more. The players were larger than life, the football the size of a watermelon, and the cheerleaders' pompoms were—

Don cut that thought off. Not while on business, Eppes. Half of the Army types were there, having foregone the luxury of sleep in favor of watching the Dolphins trounce the Rams or vice versa, yelling and/or cheering each play that was made. The beer wasn't flowing—Lt. Bakker knew his men—but they made do with the bottles of pop and had already placed an order for pizza with the local pizzeria located a half hour away from the resort that supplied the rest of their food. The rest of the food that the resort provided was even better: buffalo wings with a sauce to scald taste buds, other foods that were guaranteed to harden arteries within one to two business days…

"He was out of bounds," Don protested. "Didn't you see where his feet were? Out of bounds. On this screen, you can't miss anything. Damn referee needs glasses," he grumbled.

"Yer jist pissed 'cause the Rams are losing, Special Agent Eppes," Bakker drawled with a grin, the words coming out more slowly just to annoy Don. "'Fraid of losing that little wager we got goin'?"

"Damn right I am," Don told him, one corner of his mouth heading up toward the ceiling. "It's one thing to lose because the Rams turn into mutton stew, but to lose it to the refs…"

"Breaks of the game, Special Agent Eppes. Breaks of the game."

Yeah. Don allowed himself a moment of pleasure when the next play turned in the Rams' favor. "Interception!" he yelled with the rest.

But still on duty. Always on duty, and the duty part of him was wondering why the NSA agent had walked in some fifteen minutes after the game had started. Sure, the clock had only ticked off four minutes of actual play, but everyone else not on duty was here. The man had a suspiciously chapped look about him, as though he'd been outside in the cold.

Keep it casual, Eppes. Don hoisted himself up to his feet and fetched himself another slice of pizza with something indefinable as a side order. He dropped himself into the chair next to Foster. "Rams or Dophins?"

Foster shrugged. Don looked again; yeah, color was coming back into the NSA agent's face as he warmed up. What had the man been doing outside? Foster regarded the large screen. "Gotta admit, Eppes: neither one. But I'm kind of hoping to see the Rams pull this one out. They'll be easier for the Patriots to crush come Super Bowl time."

"Ah, a New England fan?" A detail to give Megan in her search for info on the various players. "Grow up around those parts?"

The look that Foster gave him told Don that Foster knew exactly what Don was after. The air grew just a little frostier. "No." And left it at that.

Not going any further. Don removed himself to a chair toward the back of the room where he could observe everyone in it, including Foster.

Bakker had allowed the guards to post only one man on each entrance with one more to man the communications console, so that the rest could enjoy the game with the plan of replacing those men at half-time. He had obtained his own set of comm. links from the bunker stores, and currently kept tabs every few minutes or so from his men on guard duty as an extra precaution, and Don could see him muttering quietly into that link, keeping his voice down except when the Dolphins made a spectacular play, good or bad. A play by play commentary? Could be. Bakker would want to keep his men happy, and that meant keeping them caught up in the action as well as making sure that there wasn't anything suspicious going on outside. Once he stiffened, and Don came on alert, but then the shoulders slumped back down to normal, and Don surmised that the guard called back in. Don raised his eyebrows at Lt. Bakker, and the lieutenant shook his head: false alarm.

Don sympathized; he was doing the same thing with Colby, letting the man hear the sports commentators over Don's own link to keep up with the action and hearing back a couple of words from Colby to let Don know that everything was copasetic on Charlie's end.

"Still buzzing around like a hamster on speed," Colby muttered into his comm. link. "Not a sign of anyone else."

"Good, 'cause Miami just got a field goal," Don groaned.

"Hey, it could'a been a touchdown, Don. Be grateful."

Don couldn't help but worry. This was all too peaceful. It was going too smoothly. Something was going to happen.

You're paranoid, Eppes. Sit your ass back down and enjoy the game.

First quarter over, Dolphins up by a field goal. Don couldn't stand it any more, had to make the rounds. He stood up.

Bakker, instantly on guard, looked at him with the question written plain: trouble?

Don shook his head. Need to stretch my legs. Be back in a few. He crossed to David, his man with a healthy serving of veggie-laden pizza in his hand. "Take over listening to Colby. I'm going to do a circuit."

"Everything okay, Don?"

"Yeah. I'm just getting spooked by nothing. Sit tight."

"I'm due to relieve Colby at half time. You want me to do it?"

"Nah. Enjoy the game. I'll be back in a few. Take Charlie some pizza when you go, will you? Don't bother with the wings; he'll bitch about the mess on his fingers getting onto the keyboard."

"You got it." David switched his own comm. link on, hooking Colby into the action.

Still, the stiffness in David's shoulders told Don that now both of his agents were just that little bit more tense because of Don's actions. Could be nothing, probably was nothing. He was getting his people concerned for no good reason. This might even cause them to ease back later on, when it was needed, could cause a fatal error at the worst possible time.

Don couldn't help it. He was letting the situation get to him, that he knew, but he couldn't help it. It was too quiet. Something was in the process of going down. He needed to check.

First: his brother. Colby was sitting in a chair at a table to one side of the room, watching Charlie skitter from one computer to another, pausing at the paperwork on the worktable in between, muttering to himself in barely audible sounds. There was an open magazine in front of the younger agent but Colby wasn't looking at it. He was alternately watching Charlie and then the corridor to the work room. He saw Don coming the moment his team leader turned the corner. He got up silently, coming to the doorway. He kept his voice down. "Everything okay, Don?"

Don glanced at Charlie. "Yeah. I'm just walking off my nerves. How's he doing?" No need to ask who 'he' was. The hands, with a chewed pencil, were stenciling in notations along the edges of the hard copy, then the pencil got stuck behind an ear while Charlie tapped in another set of instructions into the computer banks that were struggling to keep up with his demands. There was a drink of something unidentifiable on the corner of the table but it looked old and untouched. Don could just bet that his brother had forgotten all about it.

Colby shrugged helplessly. "Don't ask me. He's been in his own world."

"He getting any closer to finishing?"

"Beats me. You want we should ask him?"

Don considered. "Nah. We'll only interrupt his train of thought. He'll talk to us when he's ready." He glanced at his watch.

Colby correctly interpreted the look. "Dolphins still up by three; the quarter's been scoreless so far. David says another ten minutes of playing time until the half."

Don nodded. "I'm going to make the rounds of the army brats on guard duty. Don't let 'em know that I'm coming. Let's see if they're paying attention."

"Oh, they're paying attention, boss. Lt. Bakker'll have their hides if they don't, no matter how much they're listening to the play by play. You wanna bet that he hasn't warned them? I can use an extra fifty bucks."

Don chuckled. There were good men here, doing a good job. "Not born yesterday, Colby. Keep an eye open for trouble."

"You got it, boss. Tell Sinclair that I'm waiting for half time so that he can take my place here and I can sit my butt down in front of that monster screen with pizza and beer."

"Colby, there is no beer. This is a mission."

"Root beer?"

"Cola stuff."

"Any port in a storm."

Don felt better as he ambled purposefully away from his brother and Colby, felt his nerves settling back into the grooves where they belonged. The mission was moving ahead, and in the way that it was supposed to. The consultant was working hard on the project and, from what Charlie had said last night, would possibly be done in record time. His men were on duty, and there was no evidence of anything sneaky going on despite what his overactive imagination was trying to tell him. There were times when paranoia simply got in the way, and this was turning out to be one of them.

Private Riley was guarding the front door, his rifle held casually across his lap. He waved at Don well before the FBI agent was close enough to talk without their voices echoing through the cavernous corridors. "Agent Eppes. Saw you from a mile away."

"These corridors aren't quite that long," Don told him. "How's it looking outside?"

"Cold," Riley said with a grimace and a glance out through the window of the thick door. "Sure glad you folks don't want us to do any perimeter checks out there. Gonna snow something fierce tonight."

Don looked outside. The sky was a crystal clear blue, with not a cloud in sight. "Really?"

"Well…it's sure cold." Riley grinned. "What'd'ya expect from a southern boy?"

Don chuckled. "Keep an eye out. Let me know if anyone or anything comes near."

"You got it, Special Agent Eppes. Hey, the Rams just scored a touchdown! A twenty three yard pass and a forty yard run! Whoo-ee!" He grinned, a hand to his ear piece.

Don chuckled again. "Keep an eye out, soldier. Your relief will be here soon."

"Yes, sir! Go, Rams!"

That fifty dollars was looking more and more like a sure thing in Don's pocket, and he could imagine Lt. Bakker grinding his teeth over this last play. Don chuckled again to himself, feeling better, heading toward the back door to check on the guard there.

His good mood evaporated as soon as he spotted the guard: Schmidt. The man was leaning nonchalantly against the door, splitting his attention between watching Don approach along the corridor and peering out into the forest behind the back door. His face looked ruddy, as if he had just come in from the cold, and there was a small puddle of melted water by his feet.

Schmidt gave a casual salute. "Agent Eppes."

"Corporal," Don returned, keeping his feelings damped down. No proof, Eppes. Megan's still looking at things. You have nothing but your paranoia to go on. But his spidey sense was sending out danger signals and screaming at him, and Don was finding it hard to ignore.

All right, Eppes, time to earn your underwhelming salary. Your gut is telling you something, now it's up to you to figure out what. Don deliberately relaxed his stance, working for 'ambling' on his advance to the back door that Schmidt was guarding.

It was hard to believe that the man already had a couple of tours in the Middle East under his belt. His face looked like what Megan's records said he was: twenty one, and well on his way to dying on the streets if the Army hadn't pulled him out of his particular gutter and turned him into something useful. The experience had clearly done the man good because he wasn't one of those twenty-something's that Don routinely saw on the campus of CalSci, the ones with their brains in the sky and their noses in the air thinking that the world owed them something just for deigning to breathe the air around them. This was a man with intelligence behind those non-descript brown eyes. Schmidt tried to hide it, tried to scuttle behind a façade of a street kid toughened by a few years in the Army in unfriendly territory, but wasn't quite successful. Don knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

Okay, established: Schmidt was more than he seemed. And that made him dangerous. There were whipcord muscles covered by the long sleeves of his fatigues and the calluses on his palms were roughened by years of use, more than a tour in the Middle East would put onto his skin. What was Schmidt doing here on this mission? 'Simple guard detail' didn't seem to be enough. Whose side was he on?

Casual. Don could do casual. "Hey," he greeted the soldier, lifting his hand in a general motion that could have been anything from a wave to an attempt at a salute. "How's it looking?"

"Quiet," Schmidt responded, giving an impromptu glance over his shoulder to make sure that the cold landscape outside the door hadn't suddenly turned on him and made him into a liar. He stiffened with a small smile, and put his hand to his ear. "The Dolphins are on the Rams' three yard line, sir."

"Tell the Rams to get their asses moving. I've got a bet with your lieutenant."

"No, sir. Riley and me've got twenty bucks going down, and it's me for the fishes."

"Thought you were an Eagles fan, Schmidt."

"Got that right. Eagles are gonna run right over the Dolphins. The Rams they'll have more trouble with."

Don grinned, though he had to force it to the surface to look real. "Hear you." He glanced outside again, noting the cold frost along the edges of the window. "It's getting cold out there."

"Too cold for me," Schmidt agreed. "Better to stay inside, where it's warm. Can't wait for my relief, so I can get in front of the big screen. How is it?"

"Definitely worth watching," Don told him. "Big enough to count the stitches on the ball. And I've got to give the NSA credit; the munchies they're getting for us are making this gig worthwhile."

Schmidt nodded. "Better'n army grub."

Can I find a way to shake something loose? Don considered. "Nothing outside? No moose, no wolves?"

Schmidt shrugged. It looked awesomely casual, but Don still got the feeling that something wasn't quite right. "Might have seen a wolf in the brush, but not clearly. Wasn't any person. I let it go. Couple of rabbits, that's probably what anything walking around outside would be after."

Don took a last look through the window, wishing that there were something he could point at. "Guess I'm just antsy over this."

"Guess you are, sir. This is a cakewalk assignment." And, idly, "when do you think it'll be finished?"

Zing! Don allowed himself to grimace. "Not for a while. Charlie says this is one tough code. Maybe a week," he lied, "possibly even two."

"Sounds good to me," Schmidt allowed. "A little simple guard duty, make sure the weasels stay out there in the leaves, and three gourmet squares a day. I can live with this. You tell the professor to take his time. I won't mind."

Don winked. "I'll tell him you said that." Not!

It took all of Don's willpower not to slam the man up against the concrete wall. There was something going on, something that Don could sense. Schmidt was more than he seemed, and was taking pains to appear normal. What the hell was it?

Still, there wasn't any solid evidence, nothing to point to Schmidt as being dirty. Don's nose for trouble wasn't enough to pin anything on the man. All Don could do was watch and wait. And fume.

No, maybe not. There needed to be more that Don could do; after all, this was a top secret and highly classified mission. If there was someone that Don was leery of, then he didn't need proof to take action. This wasn't a case where Don needed to get evidence to lay before a judge. Don needed to keep the consultant safe so that the consultant could complete the assigned task, and that meant taking a long and hard look at whatever and whoever tickled Don's subconscious.

Step one: he sought out Lt. Bakker. He pulled the man just outside of the conference room where the rest of Bakker's men, along with David and the NSA agent Foster, were cheering for their favorites.

Bakker wasn't fooled. He jammed the rest of the pizza crust into his mouth and swallowed hard. "I take it that you aren't here to call off our little wager, Special Agent Eppes."

"Not with the Rams up by seven, I'm not." Don swung right into his main topic. There was only thirty seconds to half-time, and Don needed to get this out before the changing of the guard. "How well do you know Schmidt?"

"Corporal Schmidt?" Bakker was taken aback. "Pretty well, I'd say. Been with me for the last six months or so. Attached to the ten forty six before that, I think. I'd have to look up his records to be sure. Why?"

"Good man?"

"Never had any complaints. Liked by his buddies, does his job, goes home at night with his skin intact. No troubles. Why?"

"Has Schmidt been one of the men who went over to the resort to pick up our food?" Don persisted.

"Yup. Think he did it last night. You got something to say, Special Agent Eppes?"

"So he's had contact with the outside world." Don frowned.

"I don't think I like where you're going with this, Eppes. What's got yer feathers riled?"

"I have to be honest with you, lieutenant: nothing that I can put my fingers on. But I'm getting this funny feeling." Don came to a decision. "I don't want him left on guard duty alone after this. I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill—"

"—but considerin' that we're sittin' under a mountain right now," and Bakker's drawl grew more pronounced, "I take yer point, Agent Eppes. I'll not assign him anywhere close to where yer brother is doin' his work. You want me to rotate 'im out of here? Sit the rest of the mission out someplace else?"

"Worst thing we could do," Don said. "We move him out, he'll know that his cover's been blown and he'll tell his people. That'll precipitate whatever's going down. I think our best bet is to keep everything under wraps until Charlie's finished decoding that thing and then pack up in a hurry."

"He anywhere close to finishin'?"

Paranoia reared its ugly head. Don wanted to believe his gut, wanted to think that this earnest young lieutenant in front of him was a fine and upstanding American officer. But—this was national security. And Charlie's life could be at stake, not to mention whoever would be involved with the results of Charlie's work. Don plastered a sad smile on his face. "Don't I wish. Then we could leave this place behind and get back to some real work instead of babysitting."

He felt a presence behind him, turned to find NSA Agent Foster moving in on them. The man was all business, the football game forgotten. "Eppes? What's wrong?"

Don shook his head. "Wish I knew. I think I'm just being paranoid. You see anything?"

Foster shook his head. "No." He looked around; it was an automatic gesture from a trained agent on the job. There wasn't anything to see, and Foster was reassuring himself of that fact. Don's paranoia was contagious. "Maybe I'll join your man in the computer room with Dr. Eppes. How close is he to finishing?"

With Bakker standing next to them, Don could only repeat the lie. "If he's close, then I'm crazy. When he's close to an answer, he usually gets really verbal. Starts wanting to tell everybody about it. Right now he's not talking."

Foster looked back longingly at the huge screen, watching as the tight end let the ball slip through his fingers and bounce away into the end zone. And he looked at the chairs in the conference room, far more comfortably upholstered than the straight-backed jobs in the workroom where Charlie was hard at work. He sighed. "Keep me posted on the game. I put into the pool with the army boys. I have the Dolphins to win with a seven point spread."


"Don." There was relief on Charlie's face at seeing his brother, David and Foster in tow, but not much. It was half time, time for changing of the guard, not that Don had been waiting for that. Not after his little checking up excursion that failed to settle his nerves. No, Don wanted to see for himself that Charlie was safe and sound and working hard at his task. Charlie set his pencil down. "I need your help."

"My help?" That was a surprise. Don was no slouch when it came to math, but there was a big difference between Freshman Calculus and Professor Eppes-style wizardry. "Charlie, you do realize—"

"Yes, yes, I do." Dr. Eppes was in full charge-ahead mode. "I've already applied the asymmetric algorithms that the initial shell required and went through the next two layers of perihedral asymptotes. The computer cut off a lot of time there, but it can't handle this next piece. I need you to get me information about a name."

Don blinked. At least he understood the last sentence. "A name? Muzawin? You already said it was about him."

Charlie was used to everyone being one or more steps behind him. "Right. I'm still having trouble pulling out the various pieces, and it's because part of this—the key parts—are names. I need you to find out whatever you can about someone by the name of Robert Winster, living in Newport Beach, Virginia."

"You've identified him as one of the suspects?" Foster asked immediately. "I'll contact headquarters, have him picked up."

"Hey, hey, wait a sec." Don held up his hand. "Hold up, Foster; we may want to just tail this guy, let him lead us to other people. Or he may be innocent, dragged into some scheme by Muzawin. What have you got on him, Charlie? What does that cipher thing say?"

Charlie shook his head. "That's just it, Don; I don't know. Not yet. I need the names and places that he's associated with, then I can use the Pfisterer Contiguity Theorem to assign probabilities to other words to arrive at—"

"Okay, okay, I get it." Don cut him off hastily. "I'll call Megan, get her on it." He looked around automatically; there was still no one else within earshot except for the three FBI agents and the NSA man. Colby had already stood up from the table and his still unread magazine, and David was prepared to take his place.

Foster also plopped himself down at the table that Colby had vacated with an I'm staying right here expression. Charlie frowned. "Don?"

"It's okay, buddy. Just standard procedure." Damn, but Don was doing a lot of lying today. First Schmidt, then Bakker, and now his brother. Don strove to make it sound plausible. "We had a couple of hunters trespassing not too long ago—" would you believe yesterday?—"and we're still checking them out. It's nothing, but you know how it is. It's easier just to go along with the protocols than it is to make a fuss. You just keep doing your thing and get us out of here, okay buddy?"

Foster reached for the comm. link on the console. "I'll see what I can do to help, professor. I'll get my people to supply the data, keep you FBI guys from having to do the work. You're just looking for names, right?"

"Names, places, jobs." Charlie nodded. "Anything that might trigger an association. That will help me to decipher a few more pieces, which will lead to decoding the rest of the document. This is a tough one; words are relatively easy to figure out, but names and other things that could be anything are more difficult. That's why I need some additional information. Once I have that, I can finish this off." And we can all go home and hide under the bed, was the unspoken part that shone through the dark and haunted eyes.

Yeah, his brother was not taking this so well. Getting rousted from his happy and safe office at CalSci had gone over like a wet blanket in a thunderstorm. Once again Don wondered what was going on. Too many loose ends, Eppes; too many loose ends. Why hadn't Megan found any trace of the injured NSA agents? It wasn't as though Charlie had made up the story. Hell, Charlie couldn't lie to save his own life, let alone lie to Don. Don could see right through his kid brother and at the moment he could see that Charlie was slipping away, hanging onto his numbers like a man drowning in a raging sea with only his numerically-oriented life-saver to keep him afloat.

Forcing the man to take a break wouldn't help. No, the only thing that would help would be for Charlie to finish decoding the document and get him the hell away from here. Never mind that Don was enjoying the scent of pine and the crisp tang of mountain air. Charlie wasn't; Charlie was stuck inside where it was safe—I hope!—and surrounded by concrete and a mountain so that whoever it was back at CalSci couldn't take another shot at him.

Still, taking a break was a decent idea. "That sounds good, buddy. I'll have Megan work from the FBI angle, Foster here can have his people do some quiet checking, and we'll have those names and stuff for you as quick as we can. In the mean time, you want to take a few minutes off? Get some pizza? You look like you can use some down time."

But the computer interrupted, sending up a couple satisfied chirps. Charlie's attention was caught, a butterfly in a net. He drifted over to it. "Yes! It worked. That variation on the Pfisterer…" His voice trailed off, getting involved once again in his work. His shoulders straightened, the lines smoothed out of his face.

One corner of Don's mouth quirked upward. Numbers are Charlie's security blanket, he thought to himself. He beckoned to Colby. "C'mon, Colby. We've lost him again. He won't surface for another hour or two, and hopefully by then we'll have some more data for him to crunch. Let's leave these two on guard duty, and go grab some pizza."

"Bring me back a can of soda after the third quarter, okay guys?" David called after them.