A/N: Thanks to everyone still reading this. I know, this chapter took me some time, but I've been quite busy. As well, thanks for the reviews, favs and follows.

Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.
'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat.
'I don't know,' Alice answered.
'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter."

(Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland)

Chapter 9: Cloak and dagger

Washington, Wednesday, 2th November 2011, 2:28 p.m.

Special agent in charge Adam Petko doesn't believe in fame. Even more, he regards it as a lingering danger, a constant disturbance. An unwanted distraction.

Unfortunately, he's been proven right just an hour ago, as the director has ordered him into his office.

Appointments with the Director are rare, very rare. They usually only happen when your department has either won good, or bad publicity for the Bureau.

To be honest, he cannot decide which possibility is worse. His department has never caught his attention before. He should have seen it coming. All these headlines. All the greedy reporters. The talk show.

There were times when nobody would have cared. Times when you only attracted attention by mingling with national security concerns.

But nowadays, the nation's focus isn't on terrorist anymore. It's back on serial killers, on usual crimes.

Adam Petko wishes the old days back. The days when he chose the cases, when he didn't have to fake a smile to the director's choice.

His eyes fall on the file on his desk and he shakes his head. It's not their division. It's not his specialty.

It's a nightmare.

He hesitates as he picks up the receiver, reluctant even to make the call, reluctant to even speak about it.

But actually, he has no choice; the director has asked for him, he wants him, because the newspapers called him the new hero for our times, because he's been on TV, because of all the glory.

He doesn't begrudge him the fame. And the praise. He has solved the case under adverse circumstances, has solved it in five days, whereas the local police haven't been able to make any progress in two years.

But, besides his aversion to fame, there's still Indianapolis.

To err, to fail, is human, even for Federal agents. The failure isn't the critical point, not at all. It's the way he has reacted to it, the exposure of the complications with the ARI.

This case needs absolute concentration, it needs... perfection.

A case that makes you and a case that breaks you.

He sighs and finally calls his secretary. "Miss Miller", he says calmly. "Cancel my appointment with Ambury and tell agent Jayden I want to speak with him immediately."

He can think about this over and over, but in the end, it is not his decision. Sure, he could have made it his, he could have told the Director about Indianapolis, but first of all, he believes incidents like this are the concern of the department, not of the whole Bureau. And second, he expects all his agents to decide reasonable for, or against, a case.

Refusal is always better than failure.

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts.

"Come in", he says and leans back in the chair.

As Norman Jayden enters his office, he eyes him closely. It's been four weeks since the Origami killer case has been and closed and though he has sent him on vacation immediately, after all the press events, the young agent still looks exhausted. Worn.

Though, honestly, he has never seen him in another state. Hell, he probably looked just the same, in his profiler days.

"Norman, sit down", he says and waves at the chair in front of his desk.

It's his habit, his tactic to address his agents by their first name. He creates a safe, familiar atmosphere, because he hopes it will award him with the truth.

"Sir?" the younger agent asks, his voice just a nuance too formal.

Norman Jayden hasn't forgotten Indianapolis, either. He's still waiting for the tarring and the feathering.

"The director called me in this morning", he says, his tone matter-of-factly. "He wants you on a case."

Surprise shines in the eyes of his agent, surprise and even… doubt. "Me?" he asks slowly.

"Well, your successful resolution to the Origami killer case certainly paid off for the FBI", he explains. "The headlines in the newspapers, the interview... It's a high acknowledgement of your work that the director offers you this special case. But I'll be honest with you, Norman: it plays in a completely different league. If you accept – if we accept – we'll find ourselves under the constant watch of the media, probably every other department and the director himself. Any slightest mistake and we'll be forced to pack our stuff and end up in a cupboard-like office somewhere in Michigan – if high command shows us any mercy."

"I can refuse?"

"Of course. Even more, I expect you to refuse if you feel you're not up to the job. This is not Indianapolis, Norman. I cannot save your back if anything like this happens again."

The younger agent lowers his gaze in discomfort. "I understand", he replies.

"Good. I assume you understand as well that the case is classified top secret and therefore information to the press will only be passed by me, or the director himself."

"Sir, I was ordered to give those interviews. I would have never…"

He waves his hand. "I know. I am just stating the facts." He opens the file, takes out the photograph and hands it over to the man opposite of him.

"Special agent Jack Kolson. Sixteen months ago, the CIA infiltrated him into a minor terrorist group, just established in D.C. The CIA wanted to know whether they were independent, or belonged to one of the common organizations and in which sector they were operating. Kolson's reports stated they operated on their own, obviously aiming to obtain information about other groups all over the world. They planned to become a sort of third-party logistics provider. Not only weapons, but also information and High-Tec support. At first, they didn't make much progress – they bought assistants of senators and tried to spy them out, but quickly blew up – but then, they kidnapped two employees of the Homeland Security. The CIA got suspicious by the detailed and polished plan, but as they found out that their undercover agent had changed the sides, it was already too late. Kolson kidnapped and killed an employee of the office of the secretary of defense, two civilians and his contact agent before he took a flight. The terrorist group was broken up, but most of the members escaped before the CIA could arrest them. For over a year, the CIA tried to trace them, but all they found were rumors and abandoned hideouts. Until, a week ago, senator Alfred Hoogan was abducted. The CIA supervised him because they suspected him of maintaining a relationship with Francoise Delatour, a notorious weapon dealer, known for his contacts to terrorists all over the world. Nevertheless, the case was transferred to us, to department five, to the CIA's utmost anger. Senator Hoogan's body was found yesterday night, together with Kolson's fingerprints all over the scene. He did not even attempt to conceal his return. The CIA claimed the case immediately, but high command refused and confirmed the transfer to the FBI. As you can imagine, the CIA's quite pissed off. They ensured their support, but secretly, they hope we fail to arrest Kolson, just as they did."

He pauses and his blue eyes take a close look at the watery green ones of his agent.

"But this is not exactly our division. Sir", Jayden says, his expression slightly confused.

"No, it's not. Yet the Director seems to have enough confidence in your profiling skills to entrust us with the case. I leave the decision to you, Norman. But I expect a well thought-out and reasonable decision. This case can push your career, but it can as well end it."

Silence falls between them. He waits patiently for the younger man to settle his thoughts, while his eyes linger on the black leg of the ARI, visible in his chest pocket.

He has never used the glasses. They are a feature for the profilers only, futile for a man in his position. He knows how they work, he knows about the difficulties, but he has never felt the wish to go into detail.

"What about the ARI?" he asks and breaks the silence. "Any complications?"

The agent raises his head and for a second, he seems to hesitate, but then, he slowly shakes his head. "No. No, I manage."

He nods and looks at the monitors to his left. Sometimes, he asks himself if the technical equipment is the only reason the FBI still exists. Sometimes, it appears to him the high command relies more on their little gadgets than on their agents.

"I'll take it", the younger man says and he focuses his eyes back on him. "If you don't… object. Sir."

"Alright", he says. "I will inform the Director and see that the files are transferred to your ARI. Department 5 is still working on the crime scene report, so I suggest you start with the CIA files. And let me know if you need anything. After all, we're now one of the most important departments in the whole FBI. I guess we can get everything we want." Except our independence.


Washington, Wednesday, 2th November 2011, 3:04 p.m.

Norman Jayden is on a mountain top. The abyss is approximately two meters behind him, but he does not mind it. He knows he is safe. He knows it's just a creation of the ARI. He likes the woods better, though. They remind him of his youth, of the strolls in the woods with his mother. She loved to experience nature, see how the seasons changed by the colors of the leaves.

The ARI creates leaves in a more constant, almost boring brown, yet he easily falls for them, believes the woods are real, forgets about time. And after a while, when the leaves start to tremble, the tanks appear. And they won't go away, not anymore, not even when he takes the glasses off.

Triptocaine works, for now, triptocaine and another Kleenex. The tanks vanish. The blood vanishes.

Only it takes longer and longer every time, longer for his vision to become clear, longer for his breathing to become calm.

Therefore, he avoids the woods. Chooses the mountain top. Since he knows it's just a fake, it maximizes the chances he keeps track of the time.

The CIA files have already been uploaded. The reports are detailed and yet, completely superficial.

They prove the CIA has been caught completely unawares by Jack Kolson's betrayal. And according to his personal file, they aren't even to blame.

He has been one of their best undercover agents, a calm, stress-resistant, intelligent, tactical and obedient man. Thirteen years in duty and no failure. No offence. No objection.

Not the type of man to fall for money, or fanaticism. No mercenary you can recruit with ideology.

There's no obvious reason for his sudden breakout. Actually, it doesn't make any sense. Just like the fingerprints on the crime scene. He's been trained to leave no trace, so he must have left them on purpose. Not as a message, more like a statement.

Catch me if you can.

He closes the personal file and checks for the report of last night's crime scene, but it is still not available, leaving him pretty empty handed for the moment. For a second, he feels tempted to call department 5, ask them what's so fucking hard about writing a report, but he bets they are pissed off already. Just like the CIA hates to be passed over, the various departments of the FBI quarrel over cases, cases like this one, a case which attracts attention.

He hopes the report will be complete, at least. He remembers working with a guy of department 5, two or three years ago. A real slacker, interested in nothing but his appearance, taking every opportunity to fraternize with the press.

He just cares about solutions. All he aims for is to close a case. Pretty ironic this attitude awarded him with everything other agents dream of.

He hadn't expected it, not at all. The sudden glorification had made him quite uncomfortable. He had avoided all newspaper kiosks as his face had covered the god damn magazine, but he hadn't been able to escape the talk show.

Maybe he would have taken it easier if it hadn't been for the constant fear of conviction.

Attention had never brought him any luck. Probably the only lesson he's learnt in life. Hell, he's got a scar proving this theory. A scar and unidentified fingerprints.

They are safe and sound in the ARI, but they don't reveal anything. He compares them to the thousands of fingerprints in the database every day, but they never match. The ARI also provides him with every airport she has accessed with one of her various passports, lines out the time she has spent in dozens and dozens of cities, but it never catches up with her after Philadelphia.

As if she has simply disappeared. Disappeared, or faked another identity, invented another silly name.

The investigator insides him demands to solve the puzzle, nevertheless. Seeks answers. Seeks to find her. Find her and lock her up in jail.

But for the first time in his life, he rejects. Sounds the retreat. He keeps telling himself it's because he's got no clue to start with, but in reality, he fears the consequences. Fears to discover her motive. Fears to discover his failures. He's been so easy to manipulate, despite his nature, despite all is training, only by a glimpse look out of her eyes, only by a kiss, a touch.

She spread her legs, but he let her in. Damn it, he almost treated her like his fucking anchor, when in reality, she was nothing but a devious Siren.

Frustrated, he takes off the ARI and rubs his temples. He wishes he could just stop thinking about it. Wishes he could… forget everything, wishes the tripto could delete this part of his memory, instead of covering it up for some solemn, comforting hours, before it returns, before reality snaps back in. The reality which refuses to work for him, the reality he probably doesn't work for.

But the ARI... The ARI works for him. It always does. The ARI builds up a world of facts, a world of mathematic precision, based on the law of cause and effect. Organized. Logical… Safe.


Washington, Wednesday, 2th November 2011, 8:11 p.m.

The woman heads down the streets with fast, almost vicious steps. The rain pours down merciless on her slim figure, drenches her from head to toe, sneaks into the collar of her jacket, soaks her tight jeans and sticks them to her skinny legs. She blinks to avoid the raindrops reaching her eyes and her hands press tighter at her chest, to save her precious possession, the reason for her hasty visit to the streets in the dark. It's nothing but black ink on white papers, but for her, it's the Holy Grail, her only link to the events. The only reason she leaves her apartment, the only thing she cares about.

As she arrived four weeks ago, the mere existence of the apartment caught her by surprise. So constant, so unchanged, as if nothing had ever happened. As if it had waited for her to return.

But the king knows her. The king sees through her. The apartment is still there because he wants it to lull her into a false sense of security. He raised the alarm as soon as she set one foot on Washington's ground and only withholds to teach her another lesson, a lesson of inferiority and inadequacy.

But he won't fool her so easily. She won't fall for all the pretences.

Not again.

Fuck Philadelphia. Fuck the rain. Fuck him.

No, no. Fuck her. How could she have acted so careless? How could she have allowed him to force her into a corner, like a wounded animal?

Because you are, the voice says. You are the shot deer on a wasteland and from your thoughts pour down eager and uncontrolled, just like the rain. It's your flaw, honey. Your character defect. And the king knows. Kings know everything.

The woman enters the apartment building and allows one hand to slip down from her chest and into her coat pocket to search her key. She takes the stairs up to the sixth floor, as she used to, ages ago, every day. It startles her. These ordinary activities. After a year in the wild, she finds it hard to adapt to this normality – or maybe it's just because she knows it's only a brief retrospect.

She opens the door and takes off her coat. The newspaper slides down, almost falls down to the floor, but she catches it quickly with her left hand. She looks at it, relieved. It's undamaged. Just as she closes the front door and hangs up her coat, she realizes the difference in the atmosphere. Like a deer scents the hunter.

But unlike the deer, she does not think of elopement. She blinks her eyes and wraps her right hand around the handle of her gun. There's no use in escaping. She's accepted this once and she accepts it now, as she walks over into the living-room.

The king sits in the old leather chair. He wears his black coat and holds a glass of cognac in his right hand. He looks like the fucking godfather. I'm making you an offer you cannot deny.

She suppresses the smirk on her lips and keeps her expression blank as she walks further into the room.

"Please, lay down the gun, Kate", the king says with his stoical voice, not even looking at her.

For the blink of an eye, she hesitates, but in the end, she obeys and places it at the living-room desk.

The king just waves his left hand. "Sit down."

"I'm fine with standing", she replies and steps backwards. He may be polite to her, but she sees no sense in returning it.

"Yes. But I am not." He finally turns his head and his grey eyes linger on her.

Slowly, she sits down in the other chair.

"Not a complete fleabag at least, hm? You should invest some money in an umbrella. You are not a beautiful sight when you're drenched."

She shots him a glance, aware it won't impress him at all. "Why are you here?"

His lips curl a little. "Why am I here? Interesting." He puts the drink down on the table. "Why are you here, Kate? Should I anticipate the doubtful pleasure of a wedding invitation?"

He knows, she thinks and of course, the voice attacks immediately. Of course he knows, idiot! What did you expect? That he'd lose you? That you'd be able to sneak out on him?

"I need passports", she says and keeps her voice calm and steady.

"Already? What happened to the five passports I handed you over so generously?" he asks and folds his hands.

"They became useless", she answers elusively.

"Oh, indeed? Why?"

Forget it, honey. No easy way out, this time.

Unconsciously, she shakes her head to get rid of the voice, before she answers: "They fell into the wrong hands."

"No wedding invitation, then. That's a pity", the king says calmly and stands up, arranging the collar of his coat. "You have the passports tomorrow."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "That's it?" she asks. "No execution command?"

Another creepy, little smile sneaks on his lips. "Well, your disobedience didn't get you anywhere, so I expect you finally stop making a fool of yourself and follow my suggestions."

Anger shines in her eyes, but it seems just to amuse him.

"I really don't understand what you expected to achieve by your… method", he adds indifferently as he fetches his gloves out of his pocket.

"Of course you do", she replies.

"Yes, of course I do", he mutters and raises his head. "Am I not glad you always fall victim to your eagerness before I have to interfere?"

She eyes him closely. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the honorable Federal Bureau of Investigation, department 11 C, governed by special agent in charge Adam Petko, to be precisely, has just decided to call Agent Norman Jayden into play."

The woman just stares at him. He raises an eyebrow.

"A predictable choice, don't you agree? The only good press the FBI received recently was caused by the heroic, unbelievable solution to the Origami killer case. It's only logical to send new born heroes to Waterloo."

She swallows hard, but her voice is calm, controlled, as she replies: "I suppose he's as good as dead, then."

The king nods his head slowly. "Yes. What a shame you won't be here to play the crying widow on his grave." He pauses and his eyes pierce at her. "Or will you, Kate?"

She holds his gaze for an eternity, before she finally answers. "No."

"Good", the king says and walks towards the door. "I expect your departure by tomorrow. I have been very generous to you, Kate. Don't disappoint me."

The door falls shut and the world turns silent. Empty. The woman blinks her eyes in a desperate attempt to understand, really understand the king's words, but her self-protection rebels against her, tries to shelter her from the truth.

So close. So close.

Her eyes fall on the gun and her mind goes back to Charlottesville, back to the goddamn alleyway. Back to the point where she could have ended it all. But no. No. Instead she had had to save the ass of the man whose face has been all over the fucking newspapers.

Well, at least you've been right in one point, honey, the voice says. He could have been useful to you.

Her body trembles with anger. The voice watches her amused, even laughs out as she grabs the empty glass the king left behind and throws it against the wall.

Everything's shattered, isn't it? it says. Just as shattered as it's been. Give it up, darling. You cannot make any change. And I'm afraid, he is not going to make any change, either. The king promises his death. And kings always keep their promises.

Slowly, the woman sinks down to the couch and covers her eyes with her hands.

You know how this is called, don't you? Checkmate. All moves made.

For a blissful moment, she feels tempted to agree. Agree and ground arms. But there's still the rage, the emotion of her own, held captive so long that now, it burns her nerves to catch her attention. And all of a sudden, it conjures up the idea, the ludicrous, stupid plan…

Department 11 C, Adam Petko.

The woman lowers her hands and blinks her eyes. Utter madness. The king will never allow her to set one foot into the J. Edgar Hoover building… Unless…

"Unless he never considered the possibility I'd turn myself in", she mutters.

The voice rolls its eyes and shakes its head. Well, why would he? You'll never walk into the building. You wouldn't do it even if you'd stand right in front of it, now. Because you'd need to go back, honey. You'd need to go back being the person you've been, before everything shattered. And you don't even dare to remember her, you have created various identities, used them to hide yourself from her…

"Yet I am in a rage", she whispers and looks at the pieces of the glass. "Yes, I most certainly am."

The voice watches how she rises and takes her gun, paralyzed by confusion and disbelief.

You won't make it, it finally says as she takes her coat and opens the front door. You'll never make it. The king will not allow it. He will stop you…

"Yes", the woman agrees. "But I'd rather let him stop me, than you."


The cab holds 27 minutes later. The woman looks out of the window, a sudden feeling of insecurity keeping her in the seat. Only the street separates her from the entrance doors of the J. Edgar Hoover building now, but it seems like an inviolable border.

"Can't you just hold right before it?" she asks the driver.

"Sorry", he answers. "But that's strictly forbidden. 21 dollars, please."

Slowly, she nods her head and searches for her wallet, as suddenly, the driver's door is opened.

"Keep the change", a dark, male voice says.

She recognizes it immediately, but before she can even attempt to move, a hand wraps around her wrist, kind and helpful for any observer, but merciless at her skin.

"Katie, honey, I've been dying to see you!"

He pulls her out of the car and she loses balance, stumbles against him.

"Now now, aren't you lucky to see me?" he laughs.

She tries to step backwards, fumbles for her gun, but the man just pulls her closer, immobilizes her by pressing his body against hers, imitating the picture of a reunited couple.

"Behave, darling. We don't want any complications, do we?" he whispers into her ear.

"Fuck you", she snaps and struggles to escape the embrace.

"Don't be so harsh, Katie. I am just here for your protection."

"Fuck your protection", she hisses.

The man releases her hands and grabs her shoulders, forces her to look up at him. His eyes still captivate her, even after all these years. The light blue. So radiant. So piercing.

"Shame", he says, "I would have been glad to assist. But well, if you wanna play the shrew…"

He pushes her backwards with full force, right onto the street.

She tries to keep her balance, but suddenly, wheels squeak and her body meets the metal bodywork of a car. Her feet are lifted from the ground and her body slides over a carbon black hood, before it collides hard with the wet and solid asphalt.

Pain shoots through her body as she turns onto her back and catches for air. To her utmost anger, she can feel tears filling her eyes. She blinks to force them away, then slowly raises her head and opens her eyes. The car has driven off, but the man still stands on the pavement. His eyes linger on her, but then he steps forward. Finally, she jumps to her feet. Her right knee protests painfully and refuses to follow her order to run. She stumbles across the street, her eyes fixed on the glass doors, only meters away. She knows she isn't going to make it; her vision is blurry and the pain in her head makes her queasy. Yet, to her surprise, she arrives on the other side of the street and though she is sure he'll pull her back any second, her fists suddenly hammer against the doors. One of the receptionists looks up from her desk and stares at her, rises to her feet.

The woman risks a look over her shoulder, sure the man will be right behind her, sure she will have failed, but he has disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed him up. She loses balance, as the doors open, stumbles against the receptionist.

"Ma'am?" the receptionist asks. "Are you alright?"

The woman raises her head and her eyes fall on two security officers approaching them.

"I need to speak to special agent Petko", she forces out.

"Are you an agent?" the receptionist asks. "Ma'am?"

She turns her gaze, focuses on the other woman. "I've got information… information on Jack Kolson…"

The receptionist looks at her, irritated and finally, the woman speaks out the sentence she's been denying for over a year. "I'm his partner."


Washington, Wednesday, 2th November 2011, 9:52 p.m.

Norman Jayden hurries through the almost abandoned corridors, his wet shoes creaking on the floor. Twenty minutes ago, he received the call from Petko, the order to return to the office immediately, but the man didn't give him any explanation why. He is certain, almost certain it's about the case, maybe another murder, or something new about the crime scene, but still, he feels uneasy. He hates to be left in the dark, hates when people hide their intentions from him.

Well, I should probably get used to it. After all, it seems as if every single person I meet acts like that, he thinks, with a hint of sarcasm.

He turns left, passes the security door and the first interrogation rooms. Miss Miller told him where to go. Miss Miller, the complete opposite of all the Miss Moneypennys in the Bond movies, with her grey, unattached eyes and her neat desk. She, as well, hasn't given him any hint; she has just sat there, in the office, placing papers in files, as if it was just another working day and not ten o'clock in the evening.

He takes the next right and his eyes immediately fall on the two security officers, guarding the door to interrogation room number seven.

He raises an eyebrow. Maybe department 5 caught a suspect. Or witness. I shouldn't have left my office so early, he thinks.

He enters the surveillance room and spots Adam Petko standing right in front of the one-way-mirror.

"Take a look", he says, without even turning around.

Slowly, he approaches him. A woman sits on the white desk, her hands cuffed. Her dark hair is wet, therefore, he cannot make out whether it is black, or just a shade of brown. Her face is hidden from them, eyes fixed on the left wall.

"You recognize her?" Petko asks and finally, looks at him.

His face is stern, serious. Tensed.

"Should I?" he asks back and wishes his voice wouldn't sound so surprised.

"Look closely", his superior says and folds his arms before his chest.

Futile, he thinks, but nevertheless follows the advice and has another look. Yet, all he spots is a hole in her coat, right at her left elbow.

He shakes his head. "No. No, I don't…"

The woman's eyes travel down to the handcuffs. She tries to slip her hands through them, but of course, the attempt is just stupid. He's sure she clenches her teeth, but as she raises her eyes to the one-way-mirror, her expression is blank. Empty.

And familiar.

No, he thinks. No, this can't be…

Her eyes pierce him, as if the glass shielding him from her doesn't exist. As if she knows he is standing there. Hot and cold shivers run down his spine. His right hand trembles slightly and he clenches it to a fist.

I'm wasted, he thinks. I'm absolutely wasted. Fuck, how the hell shall I explain this?

He swallows hard and looks at his superior. Petko's expression hasn't changed a bit. "Sir…" he starts, but the man just waves his hand to silence him.

He lowers his gaze and prepares for the dressing down of his life, prepares to face the accusations, while his mind searches desperately for a logical explanation he knows doesn't exist.

"It's okay", Petko says. "It was worth a try."

His voice is calm, matter-of-factly.

"Wh… What?" he stutters, completely irritated.

"I thought you'd maybe picked up something in the CIA file that explains who she is. Something I had missed."

"She's related to the Kolson case?" he asks and now, even his voice starts to tremble.

Shit. Oh shit. But why isn't he… shouting at me?

His superior sighs and shrugs his shoulders. "Well, that's what she said to the receptionist as she fell into her hands. She claimed to be his partner. There's no proof for her statement, though. She's got no ID and her fingerprints are not in the system. And since you just confirmed the files don't mention her, it might be nothing, after all."

He stares at his superior and finally, realizes it's not about him at all. Though it's her, it's clearly her, Petko knows nothing about their... meetings, knows nothing about Philadelphia.

How can this be possible? he thinks.

"So…" he starts and clears his throat. "So you just called me to… prove she's lying?"

"I'm not sure she is", Petko says slowly. "The receptionist saw her fighting with a man just across the street. He pushed her right in front of car. That's why they decided to help her and let her in." The man pauses and looks at him. "I think we should interrogate her. Try and find out if her story makes any sense."

"Interrogate her?" he asks, horrified.

His superior raises an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"

No, no. Not at all. I mean, I've slept with the woman who is a suspect in the case the Director just transferred to me, but why should this be a problem?

"No", he lies. "No, of course not."

"Good", his superior says. "I'll stay here and watch, in case you need assistance."

Assistance. Yeah, right, he thinks and exits the room. As he lays his hand on the doorknob of interrogation room seven, he hesitates. So, that's it. I'll make one step into the room and she'll reveal everything. She'll reveal everything, and I'll be totally fucked up. Fucked up, just because I couldn't resist those god damn eyes. The oldest story in the world.

He shakes his head, then opens the door. The woman looks up, but against his fears, her eyes show nothing. No recognition. No surprise. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"I asked for a coffee, about an hour ago", she says and her voice sounds so aloof, so familiar that his mind jumps back to their last encounter immediately.

No. No. Don't even start to remember, he thinks and struggles to keep his expression distant, superior.

"Oh and I'd be certainly thankful if you could finally get my hands out of these stupid cuffs. It's starting to hurt", she adds and frowns at the solid material.

"I'm afraid that's not possible", he says matter-of-factly and sits down in front of her. He folds his hands, just in case the tremor returns and focuses on her. She looks like a drowned rat, her hair messy, the coat dirty, but as she looks at him, her eyes are still the same god damn captivating abyss they've been weeks before.

"Why?" she asks. "Think I could escape out of the Bureau of Investigation? You're overestimating my abilities."

Most certainly not. At least, not again. "Who are you?" he asks.

A small grin sneaks onto her lips. "You don't know, do you?"

He's pretty sure she'd like to add the word "still", self-satisfied she ended up being right with everything she's said in Philadelphia.

"Should I?" he asks, content his voice sounds calm, controlled.

The woman shakes her head and… chuckles, as if she actually enjoys this, as if he's wearing the handcuffs, not her.

"No surprises, then", she says absent-mindedly, before she returns her attention to him. "You're really lucky I survived my little encounter with the car… Agent Jayden."

A part of him feels relieved she finally finishes the masquerade, finally heralds the end. Nevertheless, he can't keep his eyes from widen in shock by the sound of his name.

"You…" he begins and swallows hard. "You know me?"

The woman leans back in the chair. "Yes", she says.

Suddenly, his hands feel sweaty and he lowers his gaze to the table. Game over, Norman, he thinks. Well, you didn't really believe you'd make it out of this, did you?

"Well, everybody does", the woman says carelessly. "I mean, there hasn't been a way around your face three weeks ago."

Surprised, he raises his head. Her eyes glitter with amusement, clear proof she is aware of his miserable situation. "I'm kind of disappointed, though", she continues. "I pictured you… taller."

Why doesn't she convict me? Why does she… go on with this?

"You said you're Jack Kolson's partner…" he begins, but she interrupts him.

"Actually, I was. I'm sorry. You have to understand, it's been quite disturbing to confess my… involvement."

"Did he follow you?" he continues.

The woman raises an eyebrow. "Don't be stupid. If Jack had followed me, I wouldn't sit here and talk to you. No, no. For the moment, he doesn't care about my whereabouts."

"Then who did?" His voice is clear, again. Clear and determined, as it should be.

"Well, the round table, of course", she replies.

He stares at her. "The round table? Like in the legend?"

"Yes. King Arthur's noble knights. Led by Sir Lancelot himself. God, you really don't know anything, do you?"

For a moment, he just looks at her, then he rises. "I don't have time to play games with you", he says, careless and arrogant, though in truth, he feels angry. Annoyed.

"But I don't play games with you, agent Jayden", she says, her tone sickly sweet. "But Jack Kolson will. He will play a game with you, but he won't even tell you the rules. I know them, though. I've been in this game once. But well, if you're not interested, it's fine by me. I'll just enjoy the comfort of FBI custody until he pops a cap in your ass. Maybe the next profiler will be more interested in listening to me."

His eyes narrow her. "Spill it", he says, not even trying to hide his anger anymore.

The woman jangles the handcuffs. "Release me, first. I can't think feeling so… confined. Besides, I surely deserve a little hospitality for all the things I've done, don't you agree?"

The smirk on her lips proves she's not just talking about the car crash. He wishes he could wipe it away and clenches his teeth. Reluctantly, he takes out his key and walks over to her.

Her eyes linger on him as he opens the cuffs, anxious not to touch her. As the lock opens, she slightly turns her head and he can feel her hot breath on his skin as she says: "Now, that wasn't too hard, was it?"

Her voice is low, playful, seductive. He backs up immediately and sits down again, his expression stern. "Tell me what you know."

"Everything you know", she replies "And, of course, the truth."

"What does that mean, the truth?" he asks.

"It means I know what the CIA has been hiding from you."

He eyes her, doubtfully.

"You don't believe me, do you?" she states. "

"No", he replies. "I think you're just trying to show off."

She laughs, shortly. "Yes. It's really hard to believe an agency like the CIA, known for its cloak and dagger operations, could hide any information", she says ironically.

"Prove it."

The woman leans forward. "Tell me, according to your… source, how many people has Jack Kolson killed? In Washington, excluding senator Hoogan?"

"Four", he replies reluctantly.

"Two civilians. A member of the office of the secretary of defense…"

"And his contact agent of the CIA. Yeah, I know all that, thank you", he snaps.

She smiles and shakes her head, slowly. "No."

"No? You mean there have been more?" he asks.

"No. I mean the contact agent is still alive."

"This is impossible", he says.

"I assure you, it's quite possible. Actually, it's pretty easy to cover up the death of an undercover agent. Just takes a few steps – fake and ID, a passport, hand over some money, persuade the person to hide… Rather uncomplicated."

"Where is he?" he asks.

The woman raises an eyebrow, but remains silent.

"I said: where is he?" he repeats, louder.

"Did I say he?" she asks back calmly.

He stares at her and all of a sudden, he understands. The gun… The passports… But this is insane… Absolutely insane. It makes no sense…

"You", he says slowly.

"Special agent Kate O'Neal, at your service." Her eyes travel to the one-way-mirror. "Your superior might maybe want to call assistant director Graham Harris", she says, her voice unaffected. "He'll confirm my identity."

He still stares at her, caught in a mixture of shock and disbelief. The woman leans back in the chair and looks at him. "Oh, and do you reckon I could get a coffee, now?"

A/N: Alright, I promised Kate would finally get a name and well, here it is. Together with her profession. It's been pretty predictable, though, hasn't it? Anyways, if you're nevertheless still interested, we've got more than one case still to solve. But, if you think the plot sucks and I should rather go back playing tennis, don't be shy to tell me. (I should do some sports again, after all.)