Of Mice Beyond Mayhem

by Gyrotank

An unofficial sequel to Chris Fischer's graphic novel 'Of Mice and Mayhem'. Rescue Rangers come face to face with Black Table - a mighty secret organization aiming to take the United States under control.

10. Chapter 9 Questions and Answers

Chapter 9

Questions and Answers

* 41 *

Day Third, noon—evening

The capital of Akbarnistan, like any principal city of any young democratic state, was not only the center of the country's political and cultural life, but also a vivid embodiment of changes since the establishment of the new regime. It was even more obvious in evening, in all senses of the word. The blackout and curfew measures strictly observed during the entire time of Haddahm's rule were gone along with him, and the city no longer went dark with the nightfall, but shone with colorful lights, joining a close-knit family constellation of million-plus cities whose illumination could be seen with unaided eye even from space.

In the process of rejoining the world, the city gradually acquired all integral features of other metropoli, including local branches of internationally famous fast food franchises and restaurants offering gourmets to taste exotic dishes of national cuisines of almost all countries and peoples of the world. Especially popular among the citizens were exotic for them recipes from Europe and America, that's why the two culinary complexes named after these continents — you can't really call three-storied buildings larger than football fields 'restaurants' — were never empty. For these reasons, approximately half of the both buildings' first floors were allocated for separate VIP-rooms for those who preferred to repast alone or in a company of selected few. Everything for the client, as they say. If they could afford that, of course.

Jacob Donovan, the former cultural attaché of the US embassy in Vienna, was one of those who could. With Fareed coming to power and diplomatic relations between Akbarnistan and the United States re-established after almost forty years of hiatus, the latter urgently needed experienced people aware of local specifics to work in newly opened consulates and the embassy. Donovan had never worked in the Middle East before, but his superiors decided that the agent who spent two decades in Austria that had been one of the Free World's outposts on the very edge of the Iron Curtain would be a perfect man to work here, on the frontline of the new cold war, this time against Ayran. Moreover, Jacob's signature was at the bottom of the document which started Operation Dark Wing, so his transfer to Akbarnistan was also a reward in the form of ability to see with his own eyes the first steps of the young democracy born owing to him.

Donovan didn't bear heat and sand too well, so he rather cringed at his superiors' care than was amused by it, but the CIA makes its agents break off arguing quickly and competently, so he surrendered to his fate and orders. On the other hand, he kept his position, all the bicycles had been invented before, so he wimbled into the embassy's functioning as if covered in soap. There was plenty of work to do, so there was no time to feel nostalgic about Austria, and when 'Europe' opened the reason disappeared, too. Now Donovan spent at least three nights a week in a cozy little room with comfortable furniture and air conditioning, looking at the walls painted in cold Alpine colors and decorated with pictures of the Alpine landscapes and savoring another meal from the chef personally. French by his origin, he, just like Donovan, had spent many years in Vienna and mastered the local culinary traditions. His dumplings, strudels and his signature Wiener Schnitzel could make you forget about everything, but, in Jacob's humble opinion, his best dish was Kaiserschmarrn — sweetened pancake with raisins and almonds. The American was used to savor those crunchy roasted pieces covered with powdered sugar slowly and thoughtfully, with his eyes closed so that nothing would divert his attention from taste. He was doing exactly that when, despite all the instructions and never minding the 'Occupied' sign on the door, a tall broad-shouldered man entered the reserved room. He was wearing a business suit, but it couldn't hide his severe smartness of a desert warrior.

"Good appetite you, Mister Donovan," the man said. His voice was energetic bass, and his English was almost intolerably bad, but English nonetheless. "Sorry intrusion, but case very urgent."

Jacob's surprise didn't affect his professional reflexes and memory, which instantly and automatically brought up the 'stranger's' full dossier: 'Abdullah al-Khasib, 48; Head of Security for the Chairman of the Council of Ministers of Akbarnistan, also the Director of National Intelligence Service of Akbarnistan; married, four children; younger brother of late Colonel Mahmud ibn Said al-Khasib…'

"Who I know sure you," Abdullah stated.

His sincerity was charming, but Donovan was an intelligence officer first and only then a diplomat, so he put his cutlery aside and switched into the mode of complete denial. "Who are you and why do you think I know you?! And what right do you have to be here?! Didn't you see the sign?! This room is reserved! Leav now, or I'll call the manager!"

"Bother manager no need to, no, he tire and to rest. Guards in corridor now my men also, and on security post, too. So no worry, nobody unneeded can hear our talk."

"There will be no talk!" Donovan tore his napkin off his neck, crumpled it markedly and threw it on the table. "I don't know who you are and why you came here, but mind you, I'm the cultural attaché of the Embassy of the United States of America, and you'll regret this! Do you hear me?!"

Al-Khasib expected such a reaction, so he was calm like a dune on a windless day. "Hear, Mister Donovan, hear good. And know good who you be. And I expect you be a culture man and agree hear me and make conclusion after."

Despite all the extravaganza the Abdullah's visit didn't look like a provocation. Usually pretty professional women with no shame or reservations and a hidden camera are used for that, and what scandalous could be about talking of two respectable businessmen? On the other hand, they could have expected him to think this way and lose his guard… Anyways, Donovan's job was not only to deny everything but also find out what his opponent was up to.

"Alright," he nodded and crossed his hands. "I'll hear you out! But since you mentioned culture, please care to introduce yourself!"

"Agree. Name be Abdullah al-Khasib, head National Intelligence Service for Akbarnistan and security for Chairman J'quai," the Akbarnistanian deliberately went down to the details knowing that the more facts known to Donovan he spoke aloud, the more eager the American would be to keep talking. "You listen, of course, today took place one very unpleasant event…"

"I heard! Of course I heard!" Donovan gabbled. "When I heard about it, I couldn't sit still! Such a happy country, and such a horrible, literally monstrous tragedy! It's unthinkable! Where do such monsters come from? They killed so many people for nothing! It wasn't just an assassination attempt, but pure genocide!"

The American's speech was accompanied by hand waving including, among other things, wringing of hands, shivering of cheeks and shaking of chin which made Donovan look like a turkey. If Abdullah hadn't known whom he was dealing with, he would have grimaced in disdain; instead he applauded the skill with which the American pretended to be an ivory tower egghead, and continued in the same manner. "All correct, horrible and monsters! Only one man can do it: Abdulmujib al-Zubayri, let the earth swallow he!"

"Al-Zubayri, you say?" Donovan pretended to think hard. "Yes, yes! I know him! He served Haddahm and is hiding in Ayran now! Good riddance, if you ask me! Everybody who goes against the people and democracy must be forcibly moved into the mountains, or even better, to some uninhabited island! Let them try to live outside the society they hate so much! That would teach them a lesson! Or they'll die, which isn't too bad, too, between you and me!"

"No bad!" Abdullah agreed. "No fortune, al-Zubayri not go to die soon. He must help."

Donovan pretended not to get it. "Whom he must help?"

"We. We must…" the Akbarnistanian paused, choosing the right conjugation. "We must help he die."

"Help die? You… you want to kill him?!" Jacob pretended to gasp for air. "You… How dare you?! You… No, I understand your feelings, but… He's on the territory of the sovereign state! Any attack on him will surely cause a great diplomatic scandal!"

"Very sad, all true. This be why I talk you now. We need help from CIA."

"CIA?" Donovan coughed and made a couple of nervous gulps of glacier water which went along with Kaiserschmarrn. "Mister al-Hasan—"

"Al-Khasib."

"What? Oh, yes, excuse me! You see, you're asking for the impossible! The CIA had never organized any murders, especially on the territory of foreign countries! That's not our method! You must be confusing us with someone else! And I even know with whom! So hear this: we are not KGB! We are the institution of democratic society and we act solely within the boundaries of the US Constitution and international law! Believe me, my government and President Logan personally are doing everything they can to persuade the Ayranian government to turn al-Zubayri over to the law enforcement agencies! Yes, it's a long and complex process, but that's the only option! We are civilized people and we must not, we have no right to become the murderers ourselves!"

It took Al-Khasib quite some effort not to burst into laughter. "I be good know you principle, Mister Donovan. I promise we not go to kill al-Zubayri though, Allah sees, he deserve it. We want persuade Ayran deal with he. Deal by they and on they territory. This violate international law?"

"This? No, of course not!" Jacob smiled in relief and wiped sweat off his forehead. "Deal with your enemies by yourself and your own territory is the sovereign right of any country!"

"It is exactly what mean I! We just want help Ayran use their sovereign right to good of they and all other. Want help Ayran and all other?"

It took the American sometime to realize it was a question. "What do you… Oh, you're asking me! Sure I do! Helping peoples and countries is the sacred duty of any diplomat!"

"I know, that is why I ask. We long think how help Ayran most good way and decide we need act. Loud act. Demonstration act."

These words scared Donovan for real. "A demonstrative act?! You want to— You're crazy!"

"You allow I explain all—"

"I want to hear nothing!" The American sprang up to his feet, not taking his flaming eyes off Abdullah. "You think that if I am the cultural attaché then I don't get elementary things? But I get everything very well! And I say with full responsibility that my government never committed acts of terrorism and they never will!"

Al-Khasib's goal was to win Donovan's favor so he raised his hands in concession and lied. "Yes, it is so. But, one, the jackal al-Zubayri will do the act. Two, no one say civil object."

"It's military, then! It changes nothing!" Donovan said angrily. He didn't go away, though, but sat down again. The contact was being established slowly but steadily.

"Change is!" The encouraged Akbarnistanian objected. "Military means few victim but much use! Military man is hot temper and easy to offend and never forgive the hyena al-Zubayri for it!"

"Yes, but only if he really is behind this."

"Or all think it."

"And if they don't?"

"They do. If act fast they do."

"Really? So what's your plan?" Jacob asked 'out of pure curiosity'.

But now it was Abdullah's turn to muddy the water. "I not think culture attaché interesting hear this detail. My plan — meet you and ask you to connect I with people who do it as profession. Some one like Mister Alvarez or Macmillan."

These names made Donovan shudder. "You mean Reginald Macmillan? I can't help you with that! He's dead!"

"He — is. But his cause live, right?"

"Well, that's a difficult question—"

"And not you competence, right. It is why I ask you tell my message you superiors. They must know what do to help I."

"If they agree to help," Donovan said.

Abdullah frowned. "They will agree. President Logan and Chairman J'quai friends and friends help one other must. Course we can do it self, but help United States allow all fast and time run. So I really ask you talk to you superior fast! All clean?"

The American coughed to suppress his laughter. Al-Khasib could threaten with acting by himself as much as he liked but facts were much stronger things than 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' even. In Ayran the CIA didn't have as broad an intelligence network as in Eastern Europe or Latin America, but even a handful of sketchy information was enough to make a firm conclusion: Akbarnistan had no spy network in Ayran anymore. There were several reasons for it, including Fareed's ecstatic pacifism, destruction of the major part of archives of the General Directorate of Foreign Intelligence in a fire caused by Haddahm loyalists and the purge that followed which resulted in the number of security agencies personnel becoming four times smaller. But, most importantly, the overwhelming majority of intelligence agents working in Ayran and other countries refused to serve the new regime for various reasons. Some considered Fareed patricide and usurper, some couldn't accept his movement towards detente, some thought he was a puppet of the USA… In any case, only a minority established contact with the newly created National Intelligence Service of Akbarnistan while the rest preferred to disappear, commit suicides, join al-Zubayri…

"Clean," Donovan agreed, opting neither to disappoint nor to correct Abdullah.

"This case good bye, we hope for you and you country!" al-Khasib bid his ceremonious farewell and left as quickly as he had come. To make their leaving look unconnected Donovan finished his hopelessly cooled omelet before leaving 'America'. Faces of security guards stationed in corridors and in the hall showed absolutely nothing and Donovan applauded their training and discipline silently. On the other hand, it wasn't surprising at all. The private security firms providing services to such complexes always employ the best…

The sudden revelation almost made Jacob stumble. He realized why he had heard only al-Khasib's steps. His people never replaced the guards — the guards were his people all along! From the start the complex was under NIS's full control! Well, it was a popular place frequented by important people, and many things of interest happened in the VIP suites…

Donovan was so upset he spat under his feet. He knew how many failures arrogance had caused, and now he was on the verge of another. A definite sign he should start thinking about retiring. How could he underestimate the Akbarnistanians he was watching through a microscope so much? Yes, their agency is young and it's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and al-Khasib and his men can only dream of self-sufficient effective actions on a foreign soil. But they were real masters of their home ground, and they have really big dreams, as the latest meeting showed. Time to tighten up the reigns before it's too late.

And I did warn them! Jacob thought. He had sent numerous reports to his superiors in which he suggested at first and then insisted on the necessity to eliminate al-Zubayri. But every time his superiors replied with general and meaningless phrases, obviously playing their own game. Well, they had it coming. Now it was too late to go back. The activity of the Akbarnistanians, especially so large-scale, had to be either stopped the hard way or controlled in an even harder way. They were allies, after all, and you are responsible for what you have tamed…

Donovan gritted his teeth. Tamed, sure… It remained to be seen who tamed whom! What does he know of al-Khasib? Only general biography, if you think about it. And al-Khasib found out everything about him: where he worked, what places he visited… He even connected him with Alvarez, so he found out where and when Donovan had worked previously. And that's serious, for you can't get that information without a 'mole' in the embassy. This 'mole' must be found fast and taken care of. Discover his contacts, feed him some misinformation, then watch the reaction of the opposite side… As always before an important operation, Donovan felt his earlaps burning and smiled. We'll see who'll be the last to laugh. It's always more enjoyable to play these games with your allies.

* 42 *

"Chip, hello! We're here! You told me to wake you up, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. I'll be right there. Wake up the others!" The chipmunk commanded in his sleep and closed his eyes even tighter, trying hard to maintain the connection with Victorian England. There, on the very top of Tower Bridge's southern tower, Sureluck Jones fought to the death with Jack the Solvent — the legendary maniac with a degree in Chemistry whose acid-burnt fingers left no prints. It allowed him to commit many horrible crimes with impunity, but now his criminal career was about to end, and the greatest detective of all times was about to tear an archaic and ugly gas mask off his face…

"They already are—" Monterey Jack managed to say before the voices of the four team members staying in the HQ rang in the air. "At last! Where have you been?! Why didn't you say anything?! Why didn't you answer the call?! Something happened?! Is Chipper hurt?!"

"I'm alright…" Chip objected, a little torpidly and dubiously. At least, Dale thought so, and it took him just three leaps to get to his friend in obvious need of help.

"CHIP! WAKE UP! IT'S ME, DALE! REMEMBER ME?!" he yelled, tugging at his friend's collar, nose and ears. Even Mahatma Gandhi couldn't stand such care, not to mention the leader of the Rescue Rangers who wasn't the creature of mild nature and used to act fast. Since Dale was almost upon him, he didn't have to aim carefully.

"OUCH!" Dale jumped back scratching his hurt forehead. "What's the big idea? I wanted to help you!"

"Thanks, I can manage!" Chip set his jacket straight and turned his head to the sides to exercise his neck. "Anything on the TV!"

Dale brightened. "Sure! Lots of things! FLDSMDFR awakened and there's risk of burger rains again!"

"Okay, and apart from silly cartoons?"

"Can't say, I watched nothing else!"

Dale would surely get another bonk if it weren't for Gadget. "No news!" She said as she approached the plane. "How about you? Learned anything?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Branson knows we've been to Blather's house."

The mouse grew pale but kept cool. Tammy was less reserved, though. "Oh, my! Now he and his men will come here and catch us all!"

"No, I doubt it," Chip calmed her down. "He thinks we were MAPs sent to kill Blather, and he will look for us at the CIA."

"Tell them about the computer!" Foxglove prompted.

"What's wrong with it? It seems to work fine… Oh…" The inventor realized what computer she was talking about and grew even more pale than before. "We left traces, didn't we?"

"You could say that. They know that someone downloaded Blather's files while he was away. Good news: they think the people who sent the MAPs did it. Bad news—"

"Those two know they didn't do that," Gadget finished. "And that there was nobody else but us there."

"Exactly," her husband confirmed. "On the other hand, the policeman Branson spoke to doesn't look like a Black Table agent, so I hope they'll stay in the dark for some time."

"What about Branson himself?" Monterey Jack inquired. "Don't you consider him a Black Table agent anymore?"

"WHAT?!" Dale took offence. "You thought Will Smith was one of those criminals?! How dare you! Haven't you seen 'Independence Day' or what?!"

"I have! Stupid movie!"

"It's not! The aliens there are real monsters!"

"Those aliens whose computers were vulnerable to the virus the Humans wrote? Yeah, yeah…"

"What's wrong with that? They are from Earth, too!"

"Who's from Earth?"

"Those aliens, who else! They were created in Hollywood! Or you thought they were real, from outer space?"

Chip didn't expect such a twist and grew slightly confused. "Surely I didn't! I just—"

But Dale could not be stopped now. "So that's what it's all about!" He laughed. "I got it! You took that movie for the news! Oh, my! Oh, it's a riot!"

Seeing that further arguing was useless, Chip started to roll up his sleeves, but then thought better and turned to his other teammate. "Foxy, could you please—"

"With pleasure!" the bat agreed instantly and embraced her beloved chipmunk so tight he could laugh no more.

"So, Monty," Chip returned to the main topic when it was quiet again. "As for your question, I can only say that the more I find out about Branson, the less I suspect him. It troubles me somewhat how easily he wins favor of people—"

"It's called charisma!" Dale interrupted him. "Just admit you envy him… Ouch!"

"But it's probably due to the combination of his vast experience and high post. You wanted to say something, Dale?"

"Me? Yeah, I… Ouch, Foxy, stop biting!"

"In that case, I'll go on. Branson makes the impression of an honest professional, but it doesn't mean we mustn't control him. On the contrary, we must know of his every step, every conversation and every clue he finds."

"Why aren't you watching him then, huh?" Dale asked defiantly. "You bashed me for Blather but you're no better!"

"In contrast to you, I know where Branson is. Right now," Chip checked his watch in an emphatic manner, "he's leaving the Holland Tunnel and turns toward the Manhattan Bridge. In light of the number of cars on the road and the speed limit, he'll reach his destination, which is LaGuardia Airport, in thirty, thirty five minutes at most. The Wing will get there in five minutes, so we've got half an hour to get ready for the trip to Washington. That is to gather equipment," he looked at his wife meaningfully and she nodded and ran to the hangar. He continued: "And medical supplies…"

"I'll get them!" Tammy shouted as she ran after Gadget.

"Fresh batteries…"

"Consider them changed!" Monterey Jack leapt off the plane so mightily the craft shook.

"Foxy, bring data carriers and hacking programs!"

"On my way!"

"Good! No, leave Dale here, I've got to talk to him separately! Zipper, gather food and drinks! And don't forget coffee!"

"Will do!"

"I don't doubt it! Alright, Dale, now as for you…"

"As for me what?" The second chipmunk asked warily, breaking into sweat for some reason.

"What do you think of WaGuS?"

"WaGuS? They're good! Great! Wonderful! Cool guys! Superb pupils! In short, they are top-notch! Why?"

"I wondered if we could ask them to guard the HQ while we're away. The case of the Black Table can take a long time, and someone's got to be here, answer the calls and maintain the order. Do you think they are up to it?"

"To the calls and order? Sure, all hands and legs down!"

"Great, then we'll ask them! Call them!"

"How? By ringing a bell?"

"No, by phone. They still have the Rangermobile, I presume?"

"Yes, Foxy left it… Oh, right! It's got the phone!.. And what about your phone? We called you several times, but you were out of service…"

"Really? Let's take a look!" Chip jumped on the landing branch and crawled under the Wing. "Come here, lend me a paw!"

"Coming…" Dale sighed heavily, regretting to have mentioned it. But it was too late to retreat, so he joined his friend. They opened the four locks and lowered the lid of the tail hatch to get to the phone inserted into the special socket. They had to put it there to free the cabin space; fortunately, Humans invented hands-free, so Gadget managed to put the speaker right on the dashboard. The call was answered and ended by pressing the two pedals, the pressure of which was hydraulically applied onto the phone's respected buttons. Neat and reliable. Of course, there was a danger of mixing up the phone pedals with those controlling the yaw but it was still better than disassembling half of the plane to access the phone.

"It's broken," Dale said when the friends took the phone out of the socket and found it absolutely unresponsive.

"Or its charge ran out," Chip said. "In any case, it's unusable. We'll have to get the one from the HQ. Alright, go call the WaGuS, tell them to come here. Who's the strongest of them? Fishburn? Call him, too, he'll help us with the gyrotank… Oh, you're still here? Good, you can help me with—"

"No, I'm already there!" the red-nosed chipmunk was gone like the hurricane. Chip wanted to cause exactly this reaction, but didn't expect his friend to be so fast. Nice trick, he noted to himself. I should use it more often…

Even after all the upgrades and modifications the Wing's cargo hold was too small to carry all the equipment that could theoretically be of use in the upcoming operations. The largest things like flash drives and a portable scanner had to be fastened to the hull with duct tape. All small and fragile things were packed into a separate plastic container paved with cotton wool which was then entrusted to the telescopic clasp. Making sure that the plane would still fly with all of it, the Rangers left the note to Fishburn with detailed instructions about their duties in general and the gyrotank in particular, and left for LaGuardia with a safe conscience. They had to hurry. The preparations took a little longer than they expected, and the search for the needed helicopter in the busy airspace between New York City and Washington in absence of any radar was going to resemble rummaging through a haystack in search of a needle.

"I still feel bad about it," Tammy observed sadly looking back at the park they left behind.

"Why?" Chip asked. "We forgot something?"

"No, on the contrary. We took it with us."

"Really? I think we left it recharging," Dale objected, thinking Tammy was talking about the cell phone.

"What are you talking about?" Tammy asked in surprise. "We're flying on it right now!"

"We're not flying…" Dale wanted to say but Chip interrupted him. "Tammy, you're talking about the Ranger Wing?" he realized.

"I do, isn't that obvious? We ask WaGuS to cover for us, and then we take all the equipment and leave on the only plane! What will they do without any vehicles?"

"Why? They still have the Rangermobile…"

"And pigeons!" Dale added. "Lots and lots of pigeons! And those pigeons are great! They can catch and peck anyone! So they need no planes at all! But we need it greatly! So everything's as it should be! By the way, Gadget, why do we still have only one plane?"

"Because Zipper smashed the Ranger Rocket, and you crashed the Ranger Plane!" the mouse answered without turning.

Tammy lowered her eyes, taking the reproach to the heart, but Dale wasn't embarrassed at all. "Oh, that's ancient history already! You could have built a hundred planes since then! Or one, at least! You've got magical paws! You built the Plane in five minutes or so!"

"And then I spent a month or even more polishing it! I replaced almost all the parts, even used different strap fasteners! I even adjusted the balloon to have the optimal aerodynamic cross section!"

If Tammy were younger, she would say everything she thought about that 'stupid balloon thing' that nearly killed her back then. But being the nurse quickly teaches you to be patient and tactful, so she simply stated the obvious fact. "The Wing is much better."

"Of course it is!" Gadget responded even harsher than before. "After all those years! They want one hundred planes, come think of it! Want them — build them! Build at least one, I want to see it! Don't I have other things to do aside from building planes?!"

The stunned Rangers didn't know what to say. Chip was the first to recover. "Gadget, my love, we didn't mean that! It's just that, well, you see for yourself, the Wing is like a hot cake, we even don't have enough time to recharge the phone… By the way, you had some projects! I vividly remember: Ranger Interceptor, Ranger Arrow, Ranger Foxbat—"

"Huh?" Foxglove perked up at the familiar word. "Foxbat? It was named so?"

"Yes, after you!" Gadget nodded.

"After me? But I'm not a foxbat!"

"I know, but it was too large to be named simply Ranger Bat. I mean, it should have been too large to be named simply Ranger Bat. And Ranger Foxbat fitted it much better, for it had, that is, should have had, a large wingspan. That is, it should not have had, but it actually had a large wingspan, or rather, a very large wingspan, you could even say too large a wingspan. I mean, I tried to make it smaller, but then there was no place for the second row of engines and the balance became upset, so I—"

"GADGET, AIRHOLE!" Chip shouted pointing straight ahead.

"Where?!" Gadget narrowed her eyes as she stared into the surrounding skies.

"Strange…" Chip put his paw to his face, covering his eyes from the sun and his smile from his wife. "My eyes must be playing tricks on me."

"It's okay, they're common at this time of the year… Where did I stop?"

"You explained why it's clear that you hadn't built it!" her husband suggested helpfully.

"Really? I progressed so far? I'm sorry, Foxy, it's not your fault, really!"

The bat tensed up. "What do you mean?"

"The Ranger Foxbat! Didn't I mention that I stopped building it because you became a member of the team, and I thought we don't need another plane yet?"

"No, you didn't… But no offense taken!" the bat said hastily.

"Good!" Gadget smiled.

Dale wasn't as merciful, though. "So that's what happened! It was all because of you again!" he muttered angrily.

Foxy looked at him as if he was sick. "What are you talking about, cutie?"

"About everything! First we lost the plane because of you, then— ARGH!"

"ARGH!" the rest of the Rangers joined him, instinctively groping anything they could reach as the Wing took a sudden drop.

"Sorry, folks!" Gadget apologized, steadying the craft almost immediately. "Airhole, nothing to worry about!"

"I wonder if it's the same that Chip saw before," Monterey Jack asked jokingly, knowing the subject better than others.

The mouse, as usual, didn't quite get the joke. "Sure it's not! Even if there was indeed a downflow, we passed it long ago! I mean, passed by it, for had we passed through it, we would have stalled. That is, the Wing would have stalled. On the other hand, the Wing can stall even without a downflow, for it's not about downflows but how they streamwise the wings and the stabilizers. If the airflow breaks, the plane stalls. The most dangerous stall is a deep stall when the airflow broken off the wing shadows the horizontal tail. This kind of stall happens most often with the planes with stabilizers on their tail fin like Boeing 717 and the Ranger Wing!"

The last phrase terrified her friends who barely managed to calm down. "What?!" they shouted and looked back at the T-shaped tail of their dear plane through completely different eyes.

Gadget laughed. "Oh, don't worry! This design is optimal for low-velocity flying and significantly improves the plane's aerodynamic efficiency!"

Tammy wasn't quite persuaded. "But why use it if it's so dangerous? Maybe we should return to the previous version of the Wing?"

"What?!" Gadget almost let the rudder go. "The previous version was far more dangerous!"

"But there was no danger of deep stall!"

"Of course there was! It has an even greater chance to fall into a flat spin! If it hadn't been for Foxglove, we would have all perished back then!"

Intrigued, Tammy looked at the bat quizzically, but Foxglove wasn't in the mood to tell anything, instead directing a heartrending commentary-question at Dale: "So that's what you meant, yeah? That it was all my fault?"

"Dale, kid, she's talking to you!" Monterey Jack said from the rear seat when the chipmunk didn't react for quite a while.

"Huh?" Dale perked up and looked around him as if not realizing who and where he was. "What? Why?"

"So that's why!" The bar cried. "That's the proof! You don't… You…" Without finishing the phrase she sobbed and covered her head with her wings.

Dale was more or less okay with that, but the other Rangers regarded him with heavy and vibrant stares, forcing him to back down. "Uhm, Foxy…" he began tentatively and tapped at translucent webbing which looked like a shower curtain due to drops and stains rapidly appearing on its inner side. "You see, I… I just thought deeply… I mean, I didn't think of… I didn't want to tell you… I mean, I don't know where it came from… Oh, I got an idea! I mean, I know! I wanted to have a plane with two rows of engines for so long, and suddenly… I'm sorry, I won't do that again, honestly! Come on… Come on, show your face! Please…"

The skinny curtain moved aside and the bat's teary face appeared in the opening between numerous folds. "Dale…" She whispered hoarsely. "But… But why… Why do you do that? I'm willing to do anything for you, everything… And you…"

"Foxy…" The chipmunk tried to caress her ear, but Foxglove threw his hand off with a wave of her wing and turned away, clearly on the verge of bursting into tears again. Dale hesitated, looked at his friends, saw that there was no retreat, took Foxglove by her cheeks, turned her around and kissed her lips already opened for a shout of protest. The bat fought instinctively for a few seconds, but as soon as she realized Dale was serious, she embraced him to the applause and cheers of the involuntary witnesses of this heart-piercing scene.

As always, Monterey Jack was the loudest one. "Toorahloo!" he shouted, rattling his mighty fists. "Lover's quarrels are truly soon mended! Keep it up, boy! Look and learn, Chip! That's the example of how family conflicts should be resolved!"

Matching known facts with personal observations kept the leader of the Rescue Rangers from agreeing with it but he made an effort in order to preserve the team. "Right! Good job, Dale, I've always believed in you! But it seems to me we've arrived so please everybody pull up and stay sharp! Look for Branson!"

It was probably the first time when Dale was really glad to obey, but his timid attempt to disengage from Foxglove was met with notable protest so he decided to leave it as it was. But even without their help the team quickly found Branson, or rather, his car, which stood out against silvery planes like a black crow in a flock of swans.

Trevor himself was nowhere to be seen, but the rotating blades of the helicopter closest to the car indicated his whereabouts even better than a shiny green polyhedron above his head. Not for everyone, though. "Look! Look!" Tammy grew agitated as Marauder started to move. "The car's leaving! But if Branson is in a helicopter, then who's driving?"

"Maybe no one!" Gadget suggested. "Many modern cars brake and even park by themselves, and those are ordinary mass-produced models! And Branson's service car must be capable of much more, like, returning to the garage on its own!"

Chip wasn't as well-versed in the latest developments in the car industry, so he proposed a much less imaginative version. "I think he ordered one of his subordinates to drive the car to DC. At least, I'd do the same if I were him. This means that we'll have the chance to see the car in the future, so I think we should concentrate on the helicopter, for its passenger can potentially guide us to the primary target, the Black Table."

The last sentence was directed primarily at Gadget who followed the speeding-up Marauder with a glassy stare. The blacked-out windows didn't allow them to see if there was anyone inside, and the mouse felt the urge to fly closer and find out whether a computer or a human was actually driving. But her husband's words made her sit up, clench her teeth and direct the Wing after the helicopter with a confident turn of the rudder.

"How long did you sleep?" Chip inquired.

"Long enough to get us to DC. Rest."

"I'll probably do it," the chipmunk agreed and shook his own mental paw. The reminder about the Black Table guaranteed that Gadget would never lose the sight of the helicopter. Some moralists would probably say that it was an example of cynical manipulation of others for selfish motives, but Chip thought it was a motivation of subordinates for maximum efficiency for their own sake and the sake of society as a whole. "You should have a sleep, too, folks! Especially you, Foxy!"

"Already," Dale informed from under the wing of the bat who fell asleep without unclasping her embrace.

"Really? That's good."

"Yeah, very! And what do I do now?"

"Ever heard a proverb 'let sleeping dogs lie'? Do nothing… Ouch! What was that?"

Gadget shook her head. "Nothing! Hole. Airhole. No problem!"

The other Rangers shivered by old habit, but nothing bad happened except two cars colliding on the highway directly below them, and both aircrafts reached their destination safely. Contrary to the Rangers' expectations, it was not Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport but a small airfield of College-Park, Maryland, eight and a half miles north of District of Columbia, which also served as a base for a local flying school as indicated by numerous single-engine Cessnas. The meeting committee was also pretty unassuming, consisting of a single man of moderate height with visibly protuberant forehead which gradually changed into a wide bald spot. He was standing by an unshowy gray Chevrolet, watching the landing helicopter intently and even somewhat warily, as if fearing that the wind it was causing would tear his fluttering beige raincoat off him or uproot his thin hair preserved on his nape only.

"Here's Johnny!" Chip exclaimed, refreshed after some sleep and craving for action.

Dale was scared to death by the phrase, while Tammy was genuinely surprised. "How did you recognize him?"

"I didn't. It's a calculated guess," the chipmunk explained without any bragging, as if it was a matter-of-course. "It's the only man Branson spoke four times in the past twenty four hours, so it's logical to assume that— Darn, he's coming out already! Gadget, descent and decrease the engine speed! Dale, wake Foxy up, fast! We must know what they'll talk about!"

The inventor obediently directed the Wing downwards while Dale began to nag his girlfriend, owing to whom he spent the entire flight sitting upright and half-turned. At first the completely exhausted bat refused to wake up outright, but suasion, shaking, pinching, and pokes finally worked. By the time the Wing landed on the engine hood of the plane closest to the meeting point, Foxglove had come to her senses close enough to be able to almost synchronously retell her friends the eavesdropped conversation.

"Got it?" Branson asked right away.

"And hello to you, too. The ride was pleasant, thanks for asking. I drew the application up, they told me to come back in an hour."

"Do they know it's for me?"

"Yes. That's why they told me to come back in an hour and not tomorrow."

"Alright, we'll come back in an hour. How was the ride? Have you found the way easily?"

"Made only one wrong turn."

"Well, that's okay. What about Gyllenhaal?"

"He's missing you so he personally went to Reagan."

"Then I chose my landing wisely."

Blunt smiled cautiously. "A little more of that and I'll start thinking you're hiding from him."

"Let's say I've got nothing to tell him as of yet, so I do my best to avoid him. Has one hour passed already?"

"No, but it won't be long."

"Then we still have time for a change," Branson concluded and began to disrobe. "Thanks for the mackintosh, it was of great help!"

"You're welcome!" Blunt was visibly relieved to take off his friend's raincoat which was a whole size larger and hung on him like on a coat stand. "Shall we go?"

"Yes," Trevor agreed but before he could make a step towards the car, his cell phone signaled an incoming text message.

"Gyllenhaal?" John asked.

"I doubt it. His Bossiness are too lazy to write letters," Trevor supposed and was right. The message was from Salinger: 'Nothing in Springfield. Awaiting orders.' Short, clear, and with no signs of his past opposition. Positively, a right combination of carrot and sticks can work miracles.

"What should I do now?" Blunt asked out of habit.

"You — nothing," Branson becalmed him as he selected the 'Call to Sender' option from the context menu. "Start the car, I'll be right there… Hello, Howard? It's Branson. Can you talk?"

"Sure, sir!" Salinger responded immediately. Trevor doubted his young colleague was really happy to receive his call, but the skill of play-act was an integral part of discipline so his cheerful tone was another plus.

"I take it that the visit to the firm brought nothing."

"Unfortunately, sir. They've never made any service badges."

"Well, that's a shame but it's perfectly reasonable. It's unwise to order such things in a small firm where every client is news. In large forms in big cities like Newark, on the other hand—"

A painful moan came from the phone. While Howard made progress in terms of discipline, he had still much work to do with his moderation. "Mister Branson, there are probably a dozen of such firms there!"

"Maybe. And if you add Jersey-City, Hoboken, New York…"

"New York…" Howard repeated in a low voice, apparently close to fainting.

"Yes, you're right, we'll leave New York to Agent Parr. But Newark and its vicinity are yours. I doubt it will take too much time, though. Such firms are actually rare, and nobody said you must do it all by yourself."

"No, I will ask my colleagues, sure—"

"Don't ask them, Howard. Order them. Don't forget, you're the head of the Newark branch of my group!"

"Yes, but they're my friends, I can't command them…"

"Nobody says you must stand over them with a whip like a plantator over his slaves. Just give them tasks and organize their efficient work. Trust me, it's easier and faster to do that with your friends. And it's in your best interests, too. If you do it before 6 PM, you'll be able to invite Constance for dinner, her shift ends about that time…"

"You again—" Salinger grew angry but he didn't hang up, just fell silent for a while. He thought about it, too, Trevor concluded, and Howard's next words confirmed his guess. "You know, Mister Branson, with all due respect, I don't think it's a good idea!"

"Really? Why?"

"Well, we'll be tired, exhausted and all that…"

"But that's good! It becomes clear that you're a living man who does his work of state importance on his last leg. Only in movies heroes know no fear or fatigue, but in truth…. well, I'll leave the rest to you. And don't forget the image. Crumpled shirt, dark circles under your eyes, strained voice — and she'll want to pity you, to support you, to offer her shoulder… It works, I'm telling you!"

"That's how you met your wives?" Howard inquired with defiance that indicated his turmoil.

"Yes, the first two."

"Quite a role model…"

"I am what I am. And they both did become my wives."

Defeated by the argument, Salinger thanked him inertly and hung up. Trevor decided Howard had enough for some time and didn't call back about the recording of the conversation with Morrison, heading to the car instead. Zipper flew in the same direction on Chip's signal and reached it just before the doors were shut and the engine started. The Chevrolet had no light bar or roof-rack, making it impossible to camp on its roof and eavesdrop on the cabin with a stethoscope, so the Rangers had to put their trust in memory of the smallest of them.

"By the way, why don't we have any bugs yet?" Foxglove asked, whom Dale has long introduced to the spy action movies subculture. "They would be of much help for us now!"

"No, thanks! One had 'helped' us already!" Dale responded scowlingly, making all those involved in that old prank to lower their eyes in shame.

"What is it all about? Tell me!" Tammy asked. She joined the team much later and didn't know a thing.

Chip took the liberty of answering her. "Some other time, when we aren't on the run. I can only say that we had a very unpleasant incident involving a 'bug'."

"Wlatchally, it wasn't exactly a 'bug'," his wife interjected. "Rather, it was a full-fledged transceiver. Well, maybe not really full-fledged, for it had a very limited effective radius. And it wasn't really powerful if you think of it. But, considering its size… Well, forget it! It's ancient history long gone—"

"They're leaving, dear!"

"—and it was very unpleasant… What? Oh, shoot, why do you keep mum, then, huh?!" Gadget lifted the aircraft, and despite her curiosity burning like a chili pepper, Tammy had to wait with her questions, her and the others being pressed into their seats as if during a rocket start.

* 43 *

"Whom did you scold so?" Blunt asked when they left the airfield.

Trevor grimaced. "An early talent from Newark. The more I mix with him, the more I fear for the future of the Secret Service."

"You expected to have Pinkertons for this wage? You should be grateful at least somebody keeps coming."

"No, he's not entirely hopeless, but he needs to be explained the most basic things at times."

"But that's for the better," John slowed down to change into the lane leading to the overpass. "When you teach someone, you become better yourself."

"Or you grow dumber instead. And when you want to do the man some good, and he replies 'Don't mess with my life!', you begin to hate it all!"

"Don't worry, children are always like that."

Branson snorted. "That's why I don't have them."

"And that's why you treat this guy as your son."

"Oh, come on!" Trevor waved his hand in dismissal. "He's just a young colleague who needs help."

"You don't usually teach young colleagues how to date girls."

Branson looked at his friend askew. "You eavesdropped?"

"No, I overheard. It's different."

"Exactly. It's completely different. And he's also white."

"Are you a racist?" Blunt wondered.

"Are you mad?" Trevor coughed having choked on his saliva. "If I were a racist, would I be sitting in your car right now?"

"Who knows. Maybe you're pretending. Or it's latent in your case."

"Stop it, or I'll start fighting!" Trevor slapped his own back twice to prove his threat was serious and to clear his trachea completely. "Have you visited the Jacksons?"

"I have."

"How's Marjorie?"

"Well… Bad. She's grieving. But I think she'll be fine."

"Have Bart arrived?"

"Yes, early in the morning. He and Liza took everything to their hands, so don't worry, the situation is under control. They'll make it."

"I know," Branson cast a thoughtful glance on a freight train running parallel to the highway. "They're fighters. It's in their family… Are the portraits ready?"

"Yes, I've sent them to Henderson already."

"Good. We'll need them at Langley. Copy them to a flash drive you won't miss."

"Maybe it would be better to print them?"

"No, it wouldn't. Anything else of interest?"

"I learned many things about Akbarnistan."

"Thanks, me too. I underestimated the press. Sorry to have bothered you with this."

"Oh," Blunt sulked. "And I'm sitting there on a chain in front of TV typewriting everything they say, and soon I'll address everybody with 'al-', and what's in the end? An apology! A puff!"

"You're unusually happy today. Have you listened to the record?"

"I have. It's a bomb. An atomic one."

"Scared?"

"Never when you're by my side. So it's the CIA, after all?"

"No," Trevor objected resolutely. "Not the CIA. Not on their own, in any case."

"Come again?"

"It's the Black Table."

"I knew you'd say that," John grinned. "It's because of Ukraine?"

Only seatbelt kept Trevor from jumping up. "You found out something?!"

"Only what's known already," his friend cooled him down a little. "But that's more than enough."

"See the similarity?"

"Well, what can I say… Given a rich enough imagination, you can find parallels with the Lincoln assassination, too."

"Oh, stop it! It's obvious!"

"Exactly," Blunt agreed with stress. "I don't like obvious analogies. Too easy to lose the trail."

"Did they tell you that you are a bore?"

"Yes, but I prefer 'skeptic who does not believe in otherworldly forces and miraculous revelations'."

"Aren't you afraid to get a smack in the eye?" Branson grinned meaningfully.

His friend wasn't taken aback, though. "Come on, make my day!"

"As soon as possible."

"As soon as a pig flies?" Blunt said spitefully.

"As soon as I have data on the journalists. How's it going, by the way? Any progress?"

"Sure! I assigned a whole team to that, of course there is progress!"

"I hope you told them to finish everything by 7 PM?"

"Seven?" John asked in 'fear'. "Oh, God! And I told the boys to get it done by 6 PM. How can I look them in the eyes now?"

"Sympathetically!" Branson laughed and gave his friend's shoulder a push. "You're a real swindler, setting harsher deadlines than mine! And you've got such kind eyes…"

"If you lie down with dogs…" John observed thoughtfully and sighed heavily.

"True," Trevor glanced at a sign they were driving by. "Home, sweet home… You registered the equipment for yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Then drop me off on Scott Circle. I know a fine place there where they make some not too bad steaks…"

"Oh…" Blunt's cheekbones cramped. "Trev, that was very bad of you. You know I'm on diet!"

"Oh, my! Please, forgive me! I completely forgot that when you're around, I shouldn't mention the taste qualities of grilled baby-beef served under a fragrant garlic sauce…"

"Argh… Stop it!" John said through set teeth. "I'm driving… You creep… I'll remember that!"

"Okay, you win!" Trevor tapped his friend's shoulder sympathetically. "I'll order vegetable salad with no mayonnaise and an apple pudding especially for you."

"I like that!"

"While I'll be eating a hot cowboy steak with blue cheese mashed potatoes…"

"Urgh…" Blunt wailed, unable to withstand his cholesterol hunger heated by his friend's words and seasoned highly with inability to run away or cover his ears at the very least. Fortunately for him, they were two and a half miles deep inside the District of Columbia, so he didn't have to endure his friend's teasing for much longer.

Stopping as close to Scott Circle as the traffic rules allowed, John dropped off the passenger who had made his nerves and stomach suffer greatly and drove southward towards the White House. Branson walked straight along Rhode Island Avenue NW, deviating from his course only once in order to get to the opposite side of the highway-riddled square via a complex network of pedestrian crossings. There the avenue continued anew after its brief disappearance from the city map, but this time it was not a loud and constantly pulsing traffic artery connecting the center of the capital with its north-east suburbs and the adjacent state of Maryland, but a quiet street with densely planted trees, perfect for slow strolling while enjoying every step. It was also very comfortable for living and working, as offices of world-known organizations and a four-star hotel located here proved. The hotel's bar and restaurant was the place where the dishes Trevor had so vividly depicted to his unlucky brother in arms were served, and he was heading exactly there, accompanied by Zipper entrenched in his coat pocket and watched by the crew of the Ranger Wing.

"He's going to take some meals!" Monterey Jack determined at once and massaged his belly which responded with a growl. "We'd better have some, too…"

"You grew so fat you're talking of yourself in plural?" Dale giggled but was interrupted by an angry rumble of his own abdomen. "Uhm, guys, how about we eat something?"

"Later!" Chip objected. For him the case was always more important than food. "Our goal is Branson! Don't forget about it!"

"Nobody forgets!" The Aussie objected passionately. "But we can watch him and eat at the same time, right?"

"Right!" Dale and Foxglove voiced their support. None of their joint filmshows went without emptying deep dishes of edibles. Even Tammy didn't object, although, being a nurse practitioner, she always actively opposed this malpractice, constantly reminding their friends of the reflective nature of digestive tract function and a great harm done to it and the organism as a whole when your attention was directed not at the food but at something else. But at the moment hunger came out stronger than the laws of a healthy lifestyle.

"Really, Chip, dear, we need to eat something!" Gadget cooed in a stone-melting voice. "I'm sure Branson is strong and skillful enough to fare well without our help! Not to mention Zipper is watching him!"

The chipmunk looked at his wife sideways. As it was often the case, she was absolutely right and awfully mistaken at the same time. She Would be very surprised to know that Chip's actions were driven not by his concerns with the agent's life and health but with doubts in his sincerity which grew much stronger after his sudden parting with his partner. Of course, he could just despise the food in their office canteen, but Chip found it more plausible that Branson was going to a secret meeting. With a paid informant, for instance. Or, maybe, with his true employer.

Nonetheless, he didn't object to his wife. First, his own stomach was convulsing. Second, he didn't want to be blamed for being paranoid again. And third, they could easily observe their target from the outside. "Alright, let's have a rest. The best landing spot is under that lamp post, we'll see the whole room from it."

"What? We won't go inside?" Dale was surprised.

"What for? We have plenty of our own foodstuffs!"

"You're wrong, Chipper!" Monterey Jack wagged his chubby finger. "Experienced travelers always eat the pasture first, and switch to the reserves when they can find nothing! It's more reliable and more useful—"

"And much more tasty!" The red-nosed chipmunk added whose soul and body longed for something fresher and softer than dried fruits.

Chip knew from the start it would end up like that, and he also knew that their visit to the restaurant accompanied by a fat guy suffering from cheese seizures and a rogue losing the remnants of his will at the scent of chocolate would inevitably end in a mayhem. Fortunately for him, the invitation of the new members to the team not only caused their plane to be enlarged but also allowed for a broader range of tactical moves. "Foxy, Tammy, go choose something from the local cuisine for us, okay?"

The bat nodded. "Sure thing!" The squirrel also nodded and added: "Don't worry, we'll choose the most nourishing and useful meals!"

"And grab some cheese!" Monterey Jack reminded.

"And the more chocolate the better!" Dale added quickly.

"Maybe I should go, too?" Gadget suggested. "It will be too heavy a load for two…"

"It won't," Chip assured her. "The girls will take only what's really necessary. We didn't come here to eat our heads off, did we?" He looked at Dale and Monterey Jack meaningfully who quickly pretended to have never heard of something like that before.

As soon as Branson stepped onto the pathway from a sidewalk to the restaurant door, Gadget flew the plane to the spot her husband designated, between a yellow-brown heap of leaves which served as a reliable cover for the same-colored Wing from the eyes of the pedestrians, and the lamp post topped with three old-fashioned pointed cones. Its beam was perpendicular to the building's wall and ran right in front of the wide window, being a perfect spot to observe the main hall, while translucent light glass of the coffee-with-milk color allowed a spy with matching fur to effortlessly blend with surroundings. On the other hand, Chip's jacket made him darker than needed, but if someone noticed a dark spot under the cone closest to the window, they would take it for a spot of naked metal coming through chipped paint.

Branson occupied a table in the far end of the room, and the Rescue Ranger had to use binoculars; the Wing's stash of optical equipment replenished at the HQ. The agent was sitting with his face to the door, and their eyes met several times. He was too far away to see the chipmunk but he obviously felt his eyes on him, so the Rescue Ranger started looking at the wall behind him and the faces of people passing his table. Right after Branson's order was brought. a young athletic African American tried to sit at his table, but Branson, to Chip's great disappointment, politely but uncompromisingly explained that the seat was reserved. The same situation repeated regularly, all the pretenders being men of various ages and skin shades. Well, dining alone in the restaurant across the national headquarters of the Human Rights Campaign had its specifics.

"Here, Chip!" Somebody whispered loudly right into Chip's ear, almost causing the chipmunk intently watching another man Branson had just refused to fall off the lamp post. "Oh, sorry…"

"It's OK, Foxy," he answered, pulling his binoculars up by their strap. "I keep forgetting you're our Miss Stealth. Did you make it?"

"Sure!" Foxglove supported her words by giving Chip a paper bag she was clasping in her leg. "They've got a huge selection here! You'll like it!"

The food she brought smelled and looked so gustable, Chip couldn't say a word without sloshing the entire lamp post from top to bottom with his saliva filling his mouth. So he silently took the bag, gave Foxglove his binoculars, waved in the direction of the window that needed watching, and dipped his both hands into a dense mix of ground nuts, corns, citrus pulp and other tasty things that his female teammates risked their lives to gather at the kitchen and the storerooms. Everything was fresh and of top quality, and Chip couldn't stop until his stomach and cheek pouches were filled to the full.

"So, how's it going?" he asked, barely moving his overworked jaws.

"No changes. He's sitting, eating, and talking to no one."

"Are you sure?"

"At least his mouth is full. But even if he's a ventriloquist, Zipper will hear everything and tell us."

"Zipper!" Chip almost lost all the food he stored in cheeks. "He's here?!"

"Yeah, under the tabletop."

"You can see him?"

"I saw him when I was inside."

"Darn, I thought he'd stay in the car and watch Blunt! And how do we— Wait, but you were in the kitchen, and from there… Don't tell me you stole the food from the plates!"

Foxglove giggled. "No, of course not! But Zipper is the only insect in the restaurant, and I know exactly where he is, trust me!"

Chip was perfectly aware of the bat's abilities but this time he either grew too nervous or ate too much; in other words, he reacted to these words with absolutely uncharacteristic hiccup which Foxglove's sensitive nature detected immediately. "Don't worry! I remember he's a friend of mine and Dale's! And will always remember it!"

"Well, if yours and Dale's, then I have no worries!" Chip tried to amend the awkward situation with a joke. He was too successful.

"Yes, mine and Dale's…" Foxglove repeated tenderly, so pleased to hear and say her beloved one's name she closed her eyes. "You know, I still can't believe I met him! Sometimes I'm even afraid to wake up and find out it was just a dream!"

"He, too!" Chip assured her.

The bat grew sullen. "You think so? He became strange as of late. He behaves as if I'm a stranger to him…"

"Come on, Foxy! He's just a little bit nervous! You see, he's like a big baby who found out his childhood ended and he must grow up, create his own family, take new duties, new responsibilities… In that vein! It was hard even for me, and for him… Well, you know that! Foxy, you're the best and at the same time the most serious thing in his entire past and future life! It's beautiful, but also somewhat scary. Please, be lenient with him."

"Chip, you… I… Of course, I will!" Foxglove was deeply moved with this inspired speech and embraced Chip impulsively. "I will, I promise, I'll be very lenient with him! I'm always lenient with him! It's just that the waiting becomes intolerable at times, and I just… Why, Chip, why you and Gadget have no children yet?"

Chip would prefer to discuss any topic but this one, but he had no way out and it was too high to jump.

"You know, it's, uhm… Where's Branson?!"

"He's still there, I'm listening to him carefully! And to you, too, by the way!"

Where's Dale when you need him? Chip lamented to himself. But at the moment his old friend who had previously interrupted all his attempts to confess his love to Gadget was too busy eating his chocolate éclair and couldn't intrude even if he wanted to. Chip could rely on himself only. "You see, Foxy… But let it remain between us, okay?"

The bat shook her head intensely. "Of course!"

"Alright. Then listen. In short… and in general… well… it's very… complicated."

"These things are always complicated!" Foxglove assured him as she sidestepped closer to him to catch every sound and movement. "Go on, I'm all ears!"

"I see, I mean, I'm glad… Branson…"

"He's still there! Come on, Chipsey, spill it out!"

"I'll try. But it's hard to talk about such things, especially for us males, due to a number of exact and specific hopes being laid on us. And this stereotype, so to say, is so deeply entrenched in minds and souls, that the one who doesn't match it will quickly become, well, not quite an outcast but, well, it will be hard for him. Even shameful. First and foremost, in his own eyes…"

"Chip, dear…" Foxglove's face showed she was about to fold her wings and faint headfirst from the lamp post. "You… You want to say that you're…"

"Yes," the chipmunk confirmed quietly, lowering his eyes. "I'm a coward."

"Oh my…" The bat whispered, carefully touching Chip's shoulder with her wing. "And, uhm, well, does Gadget know?"

Chip shuddered. "No, of course not! On the contrary, she thinks that's the only thing on my mind, that I press on her, rush her…"

"Do you rush her?"

"Well, what can I say…" The rodent shrugged apologetically. "I do a little. I do constantly remind her about it, even pull her about it, maybe, but… darn… It's only an act! Cover-up! Camouflage! To prevent her from finding out that I'm— Oh boy, I'm so ashamed…"

Chip cast his eyes down and sobbed. Foxglove never expected such expressiveness from her usually reserved friend and now she didn't know whether to calm him or cry along. "Chipsey… I… I don't even know what to say…"

The chipmunk looked up. "Good! That's good! Don't say anything to anyone, okay?!"

"Yes-yes, of course! Sure! Absolutely! My lips are sealed!" Foxglove chattered hiding from Chip's fury behind her wings.

"I know, Foxy, I know. I'm sorry, I just got nervous… Blunt!"

Foxglove was about to get insulted but then she noticed the reflection of the already familiar Chevrolet in the restaurant window and hid behind the lamp like Chip did. When the agent entered the restaurant, Chip sent her down to put the others on alert and while he stayed back to watch the meeting of two old friends. He couldn't see the face of John who sat with his back to the window, but Branson's gestures and facial expressions were enough to get the idea of their conversation.

"This is for you!" Trevor said as he pushed plates with salad and a pudding with a thin layer of jam towards his friend. "Did everything go well?"

"Absolutely!" John answered quickly as he scooped a spoonful of fancy-cut vegetables powdered with fine cheese-bacon grit.

In spite of his impatience, Trevor waited until his starving colleague appeased his bread-demanding organism and only then asked his next question. "Did you see Gyllenhaal?"

"No, thank God. He's probably still sitting at the airport looking out for you."

"Poor sod…" Trevor said sympathetically and, apparently, drew it, because his phone emitted a specific ear-piercing sound.

Blunt smiled. "Speak of the devil and his horns will appear!"

"Fortunately, only by phone," Trevor brought the volume down to a barely audible buzzing.

"You won't answer?"

"I've got nothing to tell him. I hope it's temporary. Eat faster, we need to go."

"I'm eating, eating!" John quickly cut his pudding into four equal pieces and pointed his knife at the exhausted and now silent phone. "Although Gyllenhaal still won't like that."

"He'll have to. And who knows, maybe I was in the shower at the moment?"

"Maybe," Blunt hemmed and gave a start when his own phone started to emit different but also very telltale sounds. "He's persistent!"

"It's his loss."

"You think I shouldn't answer?"

"No."

"And how will I explain this? That I was in the shower, too? I think they'll start to think badly of us."

"Don't you worry!" Trevor waved his hand in a coy manner. "It's even prestigious nowadays and, by the way, it can really help your career! So think about it!"

Blunt made a short gesture to express everything he thought about it, finished his pancake and went to warm-up the engine letting Branson to pay the bill. Zipper left the restaurant with him. He had long spied his friends positioned on the lamp post and headed straight towards them, asking why they hadn't watched 'Johnny'.

"And why hadn't you watched him?" Chip asked a counter-question. He was disappointed and angry with this turn of events, but it was too late and there was no need to do anything about it. They located Blunt, knew the purpose of his trip in outline, and now the task was not to lose him and Branson. The Rescue Rangers did just that, dividing their roles according to the previous scheme but this time, in order to avoid the future confusion, they decided beforehand who would tail which agent.

But this precaution was unneeded. The grey Chevrolet drove around the block and returned to Scott Circle, where it then turned onto Sixteenth Street NW and followed it almost to the northernmost corner of the District of Columbia, to a quiet picturesque corner on the verge of a private sector and Rock Creek Park, where a very tall by Washington standards building of concrete and glass stood. The closed rows of evergreen trees reflecting in its lower floors' windows made it lower half emerald, but it still looked an alien and inappropriate blob against the surrounding nature, like an icy stalagmite sticking out from the center of a green meadow. It would be very hard to find a more vivid embodiment of the principle of the technical progress' impassiveness and inevitability.

At first Gordon Brightman's decision to build Horizon Tower here was given a hostile reception by both locals and the members of the board of the corporation. The former were appeased by sworn promises, legally arranged and backed by generous contributions to the community budget, that no scientific or other work involving the use of dangerous chemical or biological substances would be ever conducted in the building. The latter proved much more difficult to deal with, since many of them just couldn't understand why the headquarters of the globally known company should be built on the outskirts far from the country's business and political center. But Brightman yielded to no persuasion or threats, pushed his project through, completed it, and soon was getting not only heartfelt congratulations but also his former bitter opponents' unconditional surrender. Yes, former, for the advantages which seemed unobvious or even imaginary on paper proved indisputable in practice.

Of course, the capital's business districts were still very prestigious, but any building, no matter how exquisite and advanced it was, would become inevitably lost among other 'trend setters' and 'opinion debunkers', while a lone tower on the edge of the city would attract glances regardless of how many and which commandments of postmodernism were applied to its construction. The traffic jams, which during morning rush hours began far outside the District of Columbia, affected the Horizon employees much less than other white collars lucky enough to work in the overcrowded center. It positively affected the staff morale and productivity, and its fruits were much easier to be kept safe and secret owing to the HQ location. Not that the corporation administration deceived the local population and authorities; only paper and electronic documents were processed in the building, while research and production were made in secure facilities in the desert regions of Nevada and New Mexico. But a single sheet of paper or a file fragment of a technical report sometimes contains more information about a new revolutionary drug than a gallon of the substance itself, and an overheard conversation between a commercial director and the head of the legal department can cost the corporation a multi-billion contract. Different companies fought the industry espionage in different ways, but the foresighted placement of the headquarters allowed Horizon to refrain from dire measures like buying all the nearby buildings through the third parties. One side of the Horizon's property boarded on the state-protected park, the other — on the private sector where every stranger was a thing. Even laying their own power and communication lines, isolated from the existing ones, went much faster and cost much less than in the center already entangled with cables and pipelines.

Of course, all these advantages would disappear overnight if the other companies followed suit and built their offices in this beautiful place. Many companies filed numerous requests to buy land there, but all of those were rejected for various reasons by the Senate Committee on Environment and Public Works. The authors of numerous articles on the topic concurred that some powerful Horizon lobby existed in the Congress, but after Blather's program it became clear that the strings might go even further up…

"Yes, it's an interesting observation," Trevor agreed, looking over the treetops at the roof with a protruding rounded helipad which resembled a jestingly stuck tongue. "We should look into it. Great job, you really did your homework!"

"Huh!" Blunt hemmed. "We don't make toothpicks, we make boomsticks!"

"Nice. Your own?"

"Sure. You really need stirring up, sitting there like some dried fish."

"Yeah, yeah…" After the hearty dinner Branson's body called him on all the hours of sleep he had missed in the last three days, and was now forcing him to pay his bills. "Any ideas why I didn't order some coffee?"

"And that was really bad of you," John complained. "I hope Brightman will show some hospitality."

"He will, don't worry. But I wouldn't expect to get more than one cup."

"You think the conversation will be unpleasant?"

"Very. Trust me."

"That's what scares me. Try to tread, well, a little bit lightly, or they'll shoot us and say we wanted to steal their aspirin recipe."

"And they surely will if you hadn't arranged the meeting."

"I arranged everything!"

Indeed, they were expected. The security guard intently studied their IDs from behind a bulletproof glass, and opened a turngate. Behind it there were two lookalike bruisers wearing black body armor over dark-grey uniforms with the Horizon white-red-black emblems on their sleeves. One of them was holding a notepad-sized device, and he asked the guests to press their palms to it.

"Look, they've got your fingerprints!" Blunt exclaimed when the screen displayed his friend's name and position.

"Of course they do, they work closely with the government," Branson responded calmly.

The guards didn't ask the agents to leave their weapons and cell phones which was a great honor by itself, at the same time volunteering to lead them straight to the CEO. The agents could argue, but needed not to, and they obediently went into the indicated direction, glancing about the enormous foyer with barely concealed awe. The walls were covered with dark-grey marble with tiniest black and white streaks, and murmur of a high fountain exactly in the center of the room reflected off them, creating an illusion of being inside a mountain cave with a spring running through it.

"Health is indeed the most valuable of all the riches!" Blunt observed. Trevor nodded his agreement. Their escort pretended to hear nothing.

The top floor, where Brightman's office was located, was decorated without any false decency. Purple marble, golden lamps with shades of Tuscan glass, ebon furniture. Elijah Wasserman had nothing like it, and it was another reminder of the difference between the leagues these teams were playing at. One system, but the worlds are as far apart as the sky and the earth.

"If his workplace looks this way, I wonder what his house looks like!" Branson said, slowing down to have a closer look at the pictures decorating the corridor. They were too shapeless a kitsch for his liking, which meant they were worth a fortune.

Blunt uttered a long and sad sigh. "My mother told me to study pharmacy. Why didn't I listen?"

His question, being a rhetorical one, remained unanswered.

Reaching the end of the corridor, one of the silent guards pulled a heavy door colored as a young wine and the agents found themselves in an anteroom of the Horizon's chief office room. As they arrived, a secretary sitting right across the door pressed an intercom button, received her boss' approval, and invited the guests to come in. The guards weren't invited, so they stayed by this side of the inner door, while Branson and Blunt cast quick glances in a mirror on the wall and stepped through.

At first they thought they entered another dimension. The nerve-wracking opulence disappeared without a trace and gave way to concentrated functionality. It wasn't an office in a common sense of the word. Rather, it was something between a laboratory and a conference room. The walls and the ceiling were sterile white, and the floor consisted of glowing blue, red and green squares. It seemed the height of eccentricity but Trevor, having accompanied four US Presidents to many places inaccessible to mere mortals, knew it was an indication of the host's truly broad mind and his truly vast abilities.

"Red color — to think faster, yellow — to think jolly, and violet — to think as long as possible," Brightman explained. He was standing in the opposite end of the room by a wide desk large enough to carry a display, a fax, a wide-format printer and a table set with a clock, a globe and a dense forest of pens and pencils.

"And blue — to think as long as needed?" Trevor asked. It was the only thing he remembered from his conversation of the previous First Lady with a designer contracted to refurbish the White House east wing for her. Blue color helps you to calm down and relax, and is recommended for the people who have a keyed lifestyle and suffer from insomnia.

"Wow, you're savvy!" Brightman's voice carried not only politeness but also respect now.

"Much lesser than you are. Nice office. You've got a cultured taste. And expensive, too."

The scientist tossed his hands up in the air. "Alas, you have to pay for quality. The higher the quality, the bigger the price. And time is downright priceless. So I'd prefer to stop shouting from across the room and get down to business. Water?" He pointed at the recessed refrigerator with a glass door which contained a strategic supply of frozen part-cooked foodstuffs and soft drinks. "Or maybe coffee?"

"Coffee!" Branson and Blunt answered almost in unison. The Horizon CEO was amused by the synchrony, but he probably couldn't expect any less from the two agents who after the outwear exchange looked like the yin yang symbol having come to life. So he used the intercom to order coffee and gestured to the agents to sit wherever they liked. There were plenty of options, since Brightman's vast workplace was just a small extension of a really long elliptical table designed specifically to hold meetings with all the board members at once. As the agents took off their coats and sat across one another in the closest chairs to the scientist's desk, Brightman pressed two more buttons on the desk-mounted console, and the room slowly faded from white to green. According to psychologists and designers, this color soothed the nervous system, mitigated fatigue, and allayed migraines. It also perfectly obscured green objects, and Zipper immediately took advantage of it. He got out of the folds of Branson's coat, flew under the table to the window and knocked his fists against the glass with all his might. The people heard nothing, of course, but Foxglove who was circling around the building received the signal, located the needed window and flew to get the others. It was time to use the equipment they brought along with them…

"Well, agents, I'm all ears!" Brightman announced when his secretary brought the coffee and left. Despite his high position and astronomically large salary, his appearance and behavior still retained features of a cranky and ever unshaven biology student capable of putting his coat right on his naked torso and running out of his dormitory on a frosty January morning in order to check the hypothesis that occurred to him while he was brushing his teeth as fast as possible.

Today's Gordon Brightman wearing tailor-made suite, a hand-trimmed stylish short beard with separate grey hairs, and glasses costing five hundred dollars per lens didn't have to run across the snow in his slippers, but his desire to search and find was still hot after all these years, and his company's name was a vivid proof of that. Trevor thought it was a card worth playing out. "Great coffee!" He admired taking a sip. "How do you like it, Johnny?"

"Superb! Where do you get it?"

"From plantations, where else? But let's get to—"

"You've got your own coffee plantations?" Branson raised his eyebrows and lowered his jaw showing the highest degree of surprise. "That's what I call a magnitude!"

"No, we have no plantations of our own, but—"

"And that's quite an oversight if you ask me! They do so many things to food these days: chemistry, genetic modifications… Horrible! You can trust nothing but what you sowed and grew yourself! Don't you think so?"

It was getting harder and harder for Brightman to stay polite. "No. Well, not quite. Maybe. But please, let's talk business!" He turned to Blunt. "You called in the morning, didn't you? What do you want to talk about?"

The scientist expected that the agent who had so insisted in meeting him also valued his time highly and wouldn't chew the rag. He made two mistakes at once. First, he shouldn't have attributed his own viewpoint and outlook to others. Second, John was Branson's partner and played by his scenario, so the call to productive dialogue went unanswered. "You're absolutely right, Doctor! It's a very hot and important topic, especially in light of global warming!"

"Wait, why am I right?" Gordon became totally confused. "What warming? What does it have to do with this?"

"What? You don't see? I'll explain then: the increase of temperature on the planet causes the ice caps to melt. As the result, the ocean level rises and floods vast areas of the land, decreasing the area of farmland—"

"STOP TALKING NONSENSE!" Brightman lost his self-control. He was a polite man by nature, even meek at times, but only until the others didn't cross the boundaries of obtrusiveness, importunity, and inadequacy, and these boundaries grew narrower with every million he earned. "Do you understand where you came to and who you're talking to?! Neither I nor my corporation have nothing to do with agriculture or global warming!"

Branson and Blunt exchanged glances and simultaneously took sips from their cups. This synergy made the owner of the Horizon Tower nervous, but he became even further unsettled with the long pause that followed. Or rather, it could be long had he held for more than four seconds. "So! What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?!"

"I've been thinking," Branson responded calmly, studying intricate markings on his cup.

"About what?!"

"If you have nothing to do with agriculture, why did you hire Snow?"

"But Snow didn't work in agriculture!" Brightman objected strongly, failing to notice both a line and a hook. And they were there.

"Really?" Trevor perked up. "How do you know what he worked in?"

"What do you mean 'how'? He worked for me! I mean, for the corporation!"

"Why did you tell Blather you never heard of him, then?" Branson spoke in a calm and low voice, but his question literally pressed Brightman into his chair.

"I… I never said so!"

"But in his program Blather states you did."

"How… Wait… But…" Gordon became totally confused, once again having fallen a victim of excessive generalization. He was used to communication with adequate people and considered himself one of those, and couldn't even imagine that a Special Agent of the US Secret Service, a deputy head of Presidential Protection Division himself, could lie so blatantly. Sure, Brightman knew how to tell lies himself, as his short interview with Blather proved. But lying about things known only to you and a very narrow circle of people is one thing, while lying about something that the whole country saw and heard is completely different. That's why the Horizon CEO instinctively started to doubt his own knowledge and experience, and seriously wondered whether he had heard in Blather's story the things he planned to hear and not what was really there…

"You imply that Blather lied?" Trevor came to confused Brightman's rescue.

"Yes, yes! Sure! I never said that! I said not that at all!" Brightman grabbed the lifesaver which actually was an elaborate trap.

"That's why you killed Blather?"

"I… What?! No! Why would I kill Blather?"

"For uncovering the connection between you, Snow, and the MAP."

"Wait, stop… Just a minute…" Brightman took a deep breath and pressed a button to change the illumination with the brain-stimulating yellow color. He gathered his thoughts and attempted to smile. The result wasn't really convincing. "Listen, I don't know where that Blather got it from, but there was never any MAP project!"

"Wow!" Branson didn't conceal his emotions and loudly slapped his palms against his knees. "Are you serious? You want to say that those rodents on the stage were a product of a mass hallucination?"

This was one of the questions the Horizon CEO was prepared for, and he regained some confidence. "No, it would be stupid to deny their existence. But I want to stress that Horizon Corporation has never conducted any projects even remotely similar to this MAP."

"Wait a minute," Blunt joined in. "You've just acknowledged Doctor Snow had worked for you and your company. The connection between Snow and the MAP is proved. And now you say that Horizon has nothing to do with the MAP. There's a contradiction, don't you agree?"

"No, I don't. You are right, everything looks that way. But only if you don't know that Doctor Archibald Snow had been fired from Horizon a year and a half before the Peace Summit."

Trevor pushed out his lower lip. "Really? He didn't work here for too long. And he left on his own volition, of course?"

"Your sarcasm is inappropriate!" Brightman responded to this attack without a hint of confusion. Either he grew so confident he started bluffing, or he truly had nothing to do with the Blather affair at all. "Yes, Doctor Snow resigned on his own accord! But only when numerous facts of excessive abuse of his section budget were uncovered!"

The special agents exchanged glances. "And how excessive was the abuse?" Blunt inquired.

"They were off by approximately three hundred million dollars."

Branson made a long and loud whistle. "Darn… And you let him go just like that? You didn't even suit him?"

"Alas," Gordon made a helpless gesture with his hands. "We could prove nothing, so we would have certainly lost the trial. It was cheaper to kick him out."

"Well, I don't know… Three hundred million dollars seem worth a try! And you security guys," Branson pointed at the door over his shoulder, "look like strong and not too shy guys. You could have told them to have a private and cordial conversation with the good doctor…"

Brightman looked at him as if he were a savage from some cannibalistic tribe. "Mister Branson, you must be confusing us with someone else! We are the pharmaceutical corporation with the world-renowned name! I don't know about your Secret Service methods, but we act in legal boundaries exclusively!"

"'In legal boundaries' doesn't mean 'clean'," Branson observed in a low voice.

The host became infuriated. "Excuse me, what are you hinting at?!"

"Nothing, don't pay attention… Why didn't you tell Blather about Doctor Snow's resignation?"

Brightman shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because he never asked about it, and I was too busy to delve into extra details… Yes, that was probably the case!"

"Did you stay in touch with the deceased after his resignation?"

"Who? Me?" Gordon smiled sarcastically. "Of course not! I forgot about him!"

"Then how do you know he's dead?"

Brightman's face became still as if sloshed with plaster. "What do you mean?" he asked, moving his lips only.

"Just what I'm asking: how do you know he's dead?" Branson repeated calmly.

"But I don't know—"

"You do! You weren't surprised when I called him 'deceased'!"

"Oh, yeah… But it was in the news! They blew him up along with that building!"

"How do you know he was in that building?"

"What do you mean, how?! There were the phone calls, before the explosion! That he is there and—"

"So what?" Blunt cut him short. "The FBI officially announced the building belonged to the National Fund for Democracy, and Snow was never there."

"Oh, come on!" Brightman braced himself and managed to smile and wink at the agents. "We're grown-ups and we know it's common practice to deny everything."

"Exactly!" Branson nodded significantly, making the scientist shudder and look away. "But still, why don't you believe the official version? You have your own sources in the FBI and the NCS? Or maybe you're behind this explosion?"

The Horizon CEO blushed heavier than the red traffic light. "You… You accuse me of this?! You're crazy!"

"On the contrary, it's very logical. After Blather's call you became afraid that your and Snow's shenanigans would be unearthed, so you quickly fired him retroactively to blame him for everything if anything goes wrong."

"Nonsense…"

"No, it's very clever! But this plan had a weak spot: Snow, if cornered, could start talking, and his testimony would finish both Horizon and you personally. He had to be dealt with. I think you've been hunting him for quite some time, but to no avail; if the government really wants, it knows how to keep secrets like nobody else. But you got lucky: some amateur photographer found Snow. All you had to do was to deal the blow. What do you say?"

"You…" Brightman choked on his anger. "You ask me?! I am the one to ask who gave you the right to insult me with these stupid fantasies, this crap! I won't leave it at that! You'll regret it!"

"I already do," Branson said, getting up and taking his coat off the chair's back. His wallet fell out of the inner pocket, and he bent down to pick it up. "I was looking forward to a sincere talk, but it was just a waste of my time. I hope I'll be more lucky at Langley."

Gordon looked like he was hit with a shovel. "Langley?"

"Yes, Langley, Virginia. I'll be meeting CIA Director Pryce. Do you know him, by chance? Although, why would you… Thanks for the coffee, it's the tastiest I drank in years. Farewell, Doctor!"

Without waiting for Brightman to gather his strength for an answer, the Secret Service agents left the inhospitable office. Zipper did the same, and the Horizon CEO remained completely alone. Well, sort of.

"They really nailed him!" Foxglove observed with excitement. She was standing on the other side of the window on a narrow ledge holding a laser microphone in her wings. The device, made of the internals of an optical disc drive, was much less powerful than Human analogues, so it had to be used almost within a hair's breadth from a target window. Still, it worked, freeing the Rescue Rangers from the need to get into the room where the conversation they wanted to eavesdrop on was taking place.

"That's for sure!" Chip agreed, standing right next to the bat. Basically, the microphone was capable of recording the captured sounds to the memory card, but the leader of the Rangers didn't want to wait, put on his climbing gear and accompanied Foxglove.

"Chip, don't you think this Brightman is that 'chemist'?" Gadget asked. She too was here, fastened to her husband's belt and sharing headphones with him and Foxglove.

"Could be. If so, it's good. Then Branson already has him on his radar."

"Oh, speaking of Branson! We should hurry if we don't want to lose him!" Foxglove reminded them.

Chip shook his head. "No. I think we aren't finished here yet… Look!"

Indeed, Brightman recovered from his shock a little and took a cell phone out of the lower drawer of his desk. Boxy and with a disproportionately small screen, it clearly belonged to the generation when the chips were big and left no space for electronics coming from an interested third party. Today it was probably the only option for truly important calls…

"Hello, Eliot? It's me, Brightman. Can you talk? …Yes, very important and urgent! Two men from the Secret Service were here— …Yes, yes, him, Branson! He said he was going to see you and I thought— …No, I told him nothing! That is, everything like we agreed! But he— No, you listen to me! He suspects me to have killed Snow and Blather! ME! …What? Just a second…" Gordon rose and came to the window, forcing the Rescue Rangers to snuggle up to the wall. "Signal was weak, what did you say? …Me? How do I know, why?! He seemed outright crazy to me! Maybe you could somehow— …Well, you are the CIA Director, you've got connections! …Yes, I got them, too! I'm calling you right now! …No, everything's clean on my side! …Yes, absolutely clean! Documents, bills, witnesses — everything! No judge will ever— …Why do you keep interrupting me?! …Sorry, Eliot, I… It's because of the yellow color! You know, it rouses and— …Yes-yes, I'm listening! …Yes, I got it! …Sure, Eliot, I'll check them all! …Yes! …Yes! …Thanks! …I'll do my best! …You, too, yes… Good-bye."

Brightman hung up and shook his head to relieve the tension. Apparently, it didn't help, because he returned to the table and switched the accelerated relaxation mode on. The walls became the color of a tropical sky at dusk, and perfectly hidden speakers began to emit a sound of ocean waves washing against the beach. Perfect for fighting stress with minimal casualties among the nerve cells…

"Doctor Brightman?" Branson peeked into the room without knocking, and all the therapy went down the drain. "Please, forgive me for my intrusion! It seems I've lost my lighter here. May I come in? Thank you! I'll make it quick!"

"But…" Gordon gurgled. "Hey, wait…!"

"Please, you don't need to get up!" Trevor stopped him with a commanding gesture. It was too late to oust him, for he was in the middle of the room by now. He came up to the chair he had occupied during the meeting, knelt down and soon rose with a small glossy item in his hand.

"Phew, I got really scared! Must have fallen out along with the wallet, and I didn't notice! I would really miss it! It is of great sentimental value to me! Family relic, you can even say! Thanks again, Doctor! Your assistance with the investigation will be duly noted!"

"Really…? But…" The Horizon CEO barely opened his mouth but Branson left without looking back, leaving him in complete dismay, and Foxglove — completely dumbfounded.

"Strange," she said thoughtfully. "Why does he need the lighter if he doesn't smoke?"

"He doesn't smoke?" Chip responded peppily. "You sure?"

"He had no cigarettes on my watch. He never even took a pack out!"

"Never took a pack out…" The chipmunk pinched his lower lip a few times, then his face brightened and he turned to Gadget. "Dear, do you know what he just did?"

"I think I do… If he did what I think he did… He did what I think he did, didn't he?"

"He's good, right?"

"Darn good!"

The bat coughed politely. "Maybe someone will explain it to me…"

"Sure!" Chip promised and pointed downwards, at Blunt exiting the building. "But on the plane. Fly up and tell them to lift us."

"What about him?" Gadget pointed at Brightman who took his glasses off and was just sitting still, his head buried in his hands.

"He won't go anywhere," her husband answered confidently. "We know everything we need about him. And Trevor Branson does, too."

His friends exchanged quick glances. It was the first time Chip called the agent by his first and last names, and for those close to him it meant quite a lot.

* 44 *

In order not to drive to the CIA Headquarters located eight miles away to the west from the capital through the jammed and convoluted city, upon leaving the Horizon Tower the agents headed in the northern direction, where they turned onto the Capital Beltway. It had a very convenient offramp to the G.W. Parkway which led straight to the gates of the world-famous complex the name of which had long become a part of popular culture. It was impossible to get lost here, so the partners spent some time rummaging through the spoils.

"What do you think of it?" Blunt asked when the recorder built into the lighter finished playing.

"That for such a respectable man he tells too many lies," Trevor stated, parodying the eponymous Doctor of Medicine from the popular TV series.

"You think he is behind the explosion and the attempt to kill Blather?"

"Actually, I came up with this right on the spot, but since you're asking… Did those two security guys look familiar to you, by chance?"

"They aren't the ones who visited Marjorie," John answered insightfully.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! We had such a hard time with them that I'll be seeing them in my dreams for a while!"

"I'll take your word for it. On the other hand, I doubt those two were the entire Horizon's security…"

"You're hinting at the audit?" Blunt inquired.

Trevor shrugged. "They are a respectable company, so I think everything was audited out a long time ago. But it won't hurt to pay them a prophylactic visit of courtesy. Make it happen."

"As always, the initiative gets punished…"

"Something like that. How're the Blathers?"

"I'll quote Dahlstrom: 'Stan Junior is a walking nightmare. He was Twittering almost the entire time where he was being taken to. Phone taken away, educational talk conducted.' End quote. Nothing from Henderson as of yet."

"Darn, it's being too long. Maybe we should drive by…"

John looked at his partner with a sheer surprise. "You know where they are?!"

"You do, too. We kept a guy who turned the Californian Minters in."

"I remember that case, it was a dreary one… It's not too far from here, you're right. You determined it by the letter's code number?"

Trevor had a feeling this conversation would backfire but he couldn't hide it from his good friend. "No, they're changing all the time. I sent Henderson there deliberately."

"Oh my… But that's against the rules! The computer selects all the sanctuaries!"

"I know, but the program workings can be traced."

"And your query can't? You reserved it personally, am I right?"

"Yes, along with another nineteen seats for the same period."

Blunt almost drove off the road. "TWENTY SANCTUARIES AT ONCE?! You… you're crazy!"

"Not at all," Trevor objected. "Just used my position, that's all."

"'Used'? Trev, it's a severe code violation!"

"Whatever! It's more important to have Blather in safety and within reach!"

"As for me, these things contradict each other a little…"

"Only if the enemy knows about it. As long as only the two of us know it, there's nothing to be feared of."

Blunt sighed. "From your lips to God's ears…"

"Exactly. Do you have the lighter's data cable? I want to upload the recording to my folder, just in case…"

"Upload to mine, too. Remember the password?"

"Uhm… I remember it's fairly complex…"

"Oh, just eight letters and ten digits!"

"You dare me to guess it?"

"Don't bother, I'll copy the file myself. For some reason, I remember your password."

"Forgive the old man, Johnny, in this age we forget much more important things… Like, where is the jack here…? Oh, false alarm, I found it! How far is our turn?"

"Right after the bridge."

In less than ten minutes Chevrolet, insistently followed by the small airplane, drove onto the truly immense parking lot in front of the CIA Headquarters western wing. After Horizon Tower, where agents met only five people in total, Langley looked like a termite nest attacked by an anteater. On the other hand, at the moment the similar picture could be seen in all the country's agencies, raised by yesterday's explosion on their legs, hands, ears and all other body parts. The CIA police was one of those, and they let the Secret Service agents in only after a thorough check and a call to the Director himself. They let the agents keep their weapons, like in Horizon, but their escort consisted of four men with submachine guns.

"Looks like we match the image of the average Black Table terrorist they conjured up," Blunt joked in a low voice when their small caravan set out.

"It's all because of you!" Trevor plucked at his friend's mackintosh's collar.

"Look at yourself!"

"And who's racist now?"

"So that's why you're so interested in this Table…"

Poking each other good-naturedly under their escort's alert stares, they went where they were led to, along the maze of corridors. Zipper, starting feeling claustrophobic after continuously sitting in a dry dark place, carefully crept towards the collar's edge and watched the dull surroundings while scratching his wings, hungry for flying. But he, at least, was inside and moving towards his goal, while his friends could boast even that…

"Bad news, folks," Foxglove informed them with regret. "They've got windows here with active noise protection in all frequency ranges!"

Monterey Jack scratched his head. "Yikesey. Now what?"

"Now if we try to use our laser mike, we'll hear white noise only," Gadget explained eagerly. "Or rather, Foxy can hear it without the mike, or rather, she can even see it, and she sees only it and she won't see Zipper's signal."

"And where should we look for them now?" Tammy asked in a sad voice.

Chip's response was swift. "In the Director's office, where else?"

"And where's that Director's office?"

"Good question… I think it's there somewhere," the chipmunk pointed at two six-storied towers in the building's western part with his two splayed fingers.

Dale failed to contain his emotions. "Are you dumb or what?! What CIA Director will put his office in the most obvious place?! They're deep underground, in the top secret bunker!"

"You're dumb yourself! They built those bunkers in case of a nuclear war, not for everyday work!"

"You consider Will Smith's visit everyday work?!"

"And you consider it nuclear war?! And stop calling him Will Smith!"

"I'll call him whatever I like! And it's mathematically optimal!"

"Wow, you know such big words! And what does this mean?"

"That the name 'Trevor Branson' has four syllables while 'Will Smith' only two! So 'Will Smith' is fifty percent more economic!"

"Your brains are fifty percent more economic!"

"Sure!" Dale put his arms akimbo proudly, but then his instinct told me there was a catch. "Hey, wait, what did you mean by that?"

"I'll explain it next week if you don't guess it yourself. Remind me to give Zipper a flashlight next time, okay?"

"And how will he use it from the underground bunker?" Dale inquired, and Chip felt an irresistible urge to bonk him. But then Foxglove, having switched her sonar from tracking mode allowing her to check on separate windows with focused high-frequency impulses into general mode of wide-sector search, detected something strange. Comparison of two successive acoustic snapshots of the surroundings showed that the base of a ventilation box on the roof of the four-storied central section of the west wing moved to the side.

At first the bat blamed it on the Wing's engines; in hover mode their blades, which rotated fast but stayed in place, confused her signal processing organs. But when Foxglove out of curiosity 'probed' the anomalous area in tracking mode, it didn't go away but even intensified so much that she raised the alarm. "FOLKS! LOOK! THERE'S SOMETHING GOING ON!"

Alerted by her shouts, Chip took his binoculars out and looked in the indicated direction. It took him some time to understand what he was seeing, but when he did, he recoiled instinctively, for it was another pair of optic-enhanced eyes looking at him.

"What's up?" Gadget asked her husband sitting on her lap.

"No idea… Just a sec…" The chipmunk nervously clicked the zoom adjuster, decreasing it in half, and then made another attempt. This time he saw not only the eyes but also their owner, a large rat with dark square buzz cut between his ears wearing a black shapeless hooded robe which made her almost invisible against the darkness of the vent shaft. Making sure that the eye contact was established, the rat took out a small but bright LED flashlight from the depth of his robe and started ending rhythmic light signals with it.

"What's up, Chip?" Gadget repeated her question.

"Rat Morse. They tell us to land onto the parking place one hundred eighteen dash A for the control and verification procedure."

Monterey Jack grew indignant. "Do we need to dance mazurka for him, too?! Who's that smart guy over there?"

"No idea, but I hope to find it out soon. Does anyone know where 118-A is?"

None of the Ranger Wing passengers knew that, and it was so obvious from the outside that the signaling rat threw conventions overboard and told them everything they needed.

"We need to turn right and fly along the building, turning nowhere, until we see the place," Chip read.

"And that will be a trap!" Monterey Jack deciphered the last phrase.

"Maybe we shouldn't go there?" Tammy offered warily.

Chip made a wry face. "You think I want to? But it looks like our only chance to get acquainted with those rats. Of course, we could try to storm that vent but I'd prefer to avoid fighting at the moment."

"But fighting is a much better way!" The Aussie cracked his knuckles defiantly. "We'll wean them off being rude to strangers once and for all!"

"I'm afraid they won't help us then," Chip rejected his offer diplomatically. "And since they probably know all ins and outs here, their assistance can be invaluable! Let's go, dear!"

"Let's split at least, then!" Monterey Jack went on generating ideas. "Say, me, Dale and you will go ahead, and the girls will provide cover!"

"What for? They already know how many of us there are, so we won't be able to catch them off guard. On the contrary, they will know for sure that we're up to something indecent."

Dale started plucking at his nose, indicating deep thinking, which culminated in the question. "But we ARE up to something indecent, no?"

"Well, it depends on a reference point… A-ha, looks like that's the place! We're in good company, don't you think?" Chip meant the isolated boxes on the adjacent parking places, clearly meant to house the cars of the CIA VIPs. On the other hand, their presence made the landing spot even less hospitable, for a narrow rectangular area, squeezed between tall solid walls on two of its sides, was perfect for an ambush.

"Now that's definitely a trap!" Monterey Jack asserted confidently. "Once again I offer to change our minds and don't go there!"

"Huh? You longed to fight just a few minutes ago!" Chip said with a feigned surprise. He actively disliked the situation, too.

"Yeah, but not against two full garages of rats! Well, not at once, at least! If they came one by one or in pairs, then no questions! Otherwise, it will be unfair!"

"Right…" Chip looked around once again. There were many acres of much less risky landing zones, but who knew how the friends of that rat would react to the violation of their rules. At best there would be no reaction at all, but in the end that would be bad… "Alright, what does our master spy think about it?"

"Who's that?" Dale asked.

"You, who else!"

"Me?"

"Well, not me for sure! Come on, tell us what you think about it!"

"You…" The red-nosed chipmunk couldn't believe his ears. "You seek my advice?!"

"Well, you're a fan of spy games! What do you suggest?"

"Suggest? Uhm… Just a sec… Erhm… Just a minute… Hrmph…"

Chip decided not to wait until his friend went through the entire ABC and asked a point-blank question. "What would your dear Dirk Suave do?"

"Dirk? Oh, that's easy! He would be victorious! Just like that!"

"Thanks, Dale, it's a great plan. Gadget, land us."

"Landing!"

"STOP!"

"What?"

"Not so fast! Say, one foot per minute!"

"Foot per minute! No problem!"

"You know, it's a bit slow… Make it two…"

"CHIP!"

"Sorry. Forgive me. I was wrong. Make it two feet. Please."

"Alright, two feet coming… But promise it was the last time!"

"No problem! I mean, sure!"

In Dale's vivid imagination careful descent onto the landing between the boxes looked like a flight into the Death Star's meridian trench. The others felt dark premonitions, too. Foxglove kept turning her head to the sides, scanning the area, but the walls reflected the sonar waves many times, and the resulting picture could readily compete with Dali's works.

"Altitude: three feet," Gadget announced.

"Three feet, acknowledged," her husband confirmed. "Continue the descent. Everybody, be all eyes and on alert!"

"Two feet!"

"Get ready!" Chip commanded as he unfastened his seatbelt. The others did the same. Monterey Jack sat on his knees to watch the rear hemisphere and silently cursed the tail fin which not only obscured the view but also replaced the tail harpoon launcher which he really missed at the moment…

But even if it were still there, he wouldn't have time to use it.

"One foot…" Gadget continued counting down. "Half a foot… Zero feet… GOLLY!"

The Ranger Wing crew saw much and was prepared virtually for everything. But when the walls of the boxes began falling right on their heads, they froze and could only watch the rapidly approaching metal with their mouths agape. Or rather, it was a thick and dim glass which was so tightly pressed to the walls it became indistinguishable from them. Which was a very cold comfort given that its weight was more than enough to turn the Rangers and their plane into a motley flapjack. But the glass wasn't designed to do that, and the leafs closed a few inches above them, reliably preventing them from flying away.

"Now we're down the plughole…" Dale uttered in a downfallen voice, and even Chip who rejected the option of surrendering to dismay had to agree with him. There was a thick glass above them, a tall concrete kerb in front of them, and the Wing couldn't fly backwards…

"Looks like we've got company!" Monterey Jack said. Everybody stood on their seats for a better view and were instantly blinded by the bright white light of several flashlights.

"Switch off the engines and get off the plane!" The command amplified by a loudspeaker came from behind the light curtain.

"And we don't?!" The Aussie barked in response. Being one of the first to recover from shock, he lowered his flying goggles down on his eyes and now tried hard to detect the speaker among the silhouettes blocking the way out and colored blots dancing before his eyes.

"Then the contingency protocol will be enacted!"

Monterey Jack wasn't impressed by the threatening official tone at all and would go on arguing if Chip didn't intervene. "Let's do what we are told. Gadget, power off. let's climb down."

"You think we should?" Tammy asked warily. "I think it's safer on the plane…"

"And it's much easier to defend!" Monterey Jack added.

"I know, Monty. And they know it, too. Come on, guys, get out."

Visibly reluctant, the Rescue Rangers got down on the ground and stood by the plane's left wing. Tammy cowered behind Monterey Jack's mighty back, Foxglove enveloped already trigger-happy Dale with her wings. Only Gadget stood by her husband, even slightly ahead of him. Those who looked into the barrel of a Human rifle don't fear some rats with flashlights.

And those were indeed the rats. Large, rough and very-very black. At first Chip thought it was an optical illusion, but when his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he saw they were all dressed in black overcoats, as if taken off Humphrey Bogart's shoulders, and black sunglasses making images of cartoonish spies from Cold War pulp fiction. But their unserious clothing was more than outweighed by a ravenous glint of arrows sticking out from the barrels of spring-loaded or pneumatic pistols. Such compact weapons couldn't have effective range more than three feet but even a tangential hit of a broad serrated head was enough to cause a dangerous ragged wound.

"Who are you?" the rats' leader stepped forward, carrying not a flashlight or a dart gun but a tin loudspeaker he needed no more. The first part of the control and verification procedure finished successfully, and it was time to move on to the second phase, much more mutual so to speak.

"We are the Rescue Rangers!" Chip shouted, stepping towards the stranger. "And you?"

"I ask questions here!"

"That's about to change soon!" Monterey Jack moved forward. Three dart guns out of seven aimed at him immediately, but he didn't notice it, and only a muffled shriek of the squirrel clutching at his back made him stop.

"Nobody moves, or we'll shoot!" the head rat explained for those who didn't understand. "I ask you again: who are you?"

"We've told you!" Gadget joined her husband and pointed at the team logo painted on the tail fin. "We are the Rescue Rangers from New York City!"

"New York City is far away and we didn't call for any rescuers! What are you doing here?"

Chip coughed tactfully. "Before answering your question, may I know who am I having pleasure to talk to?"

"Why are you bowing and scraping before this rascal?!" Monterey Jack asked, resented, although this time without moving forward.

"Rascal?" The rat repeated. "Well, let it be. But if you call me, defender of my home turf, a rascal, then how should I call you, the encroachers?"

"We're not cockroaches!" Dale objected, his hearing impaired by his girlfriend's wings.

Chip was much more interested in his opponent's other words. "Defender of your home turf? That's commendable. Is the CIA building a part of it, by any chance?"

The rat leader looked at him haughtily. On the other hand, due to their height difference, it was hard for him to do it otherwise. "Sure! It is our home turf!"

"Really? Oh, that's great! Could you—"

"QUIET!" The rat barked, having suddenly remembered he was the one asking questions here. "You'll have your say when I'm done with you, and only if I allow it! Is it clear?!"

"Perfectly!" Monterey Jack shouted, pulling up his sleeves and trying to shake Tammy off his back as gently as possible. Gadget pretended to find something of interest and bent down, ready to crouch and dash at the dart gunners. She calculated that if she disabled the two on the right and kicked the legs from under the third rat on the left with her tail, then the pair of gunners on the far left would become lost in confusion for a moment, giving Monterey Jack time to charge and smash into them. Chip would be dealing with the leader whose body would provide cover from the eyes and arrows of the two remaining rats in the center, who, once again, should get confused at first, and then it should be too late already…

"If I were you, my dear, I wouldn't do that," the leader stated with indifference. "My subordinates are real masters of hand-to-hand combat. And you're deeply mistaken if you think there are only seven of them here. Look up if you don't believe me."

"Ha! Come up with something more original!" Chip said. He wouldn't have fallen for such an old trick even in his sleep, so he didn't even flinch.

His friends were more susceptible to their reflexes, though. Each of them reacted to the things they saw in their own fashion, but Tammy surpassed all of them by an octave at least. "MOMMY!" She shrieked, grabbing Monty with her hands and legs. "They are millions!"

"I doubt it," Gadget wrinkled her nose as she thoughtfully watched the rats covering the glass roof above them so densely they completely obscured the sky. "The glass wouldn't hold so many. If we set a size of a single rat equal to some average value, then we'll have—"

"Much less than a thousand, I assure you!" The leader of the raincoat-clad rats smiled smugly, relishing in the effect achieved. "But each of them is worth a hundred, for they are the elite of our Agency!"

"Agency?" Dale was startled. "You… you work for the CIA?!"

This question was such a dense mix of surprise, awe and horror, that the fame-greedy rat just couldn't leave it unanswered. "CIA? Oh, what a nice joke! No sane rat will ever work with those amateurs! We have our own Agency! Rat Agency!"

Chip frowned. "Central Rat Agency?" The Rescue Rangers paid several visits to Langley since the Peace Summit, but they had never met these rats, which made him wonder. "I never heard about it…"

"First, it's the Rat Intelligence Agency! Second, the outsiders must not hear about it!"

Dale's eyes flared up. "Wowie-zowie! Spy Rats! Real ones! I've so long—"

"No offenses!" The RIA representative ordered. "We aren't spies, but noble intelligence officers!"

"I can see that…" Monterey Jack said through set teeth with grim determination. If it were up to him, he would have long attacked the enemies, never minding their numerical superiority. After all, all that crowd on the roof needed to get down from that roof first, and they would have enough time to loot a couple of dart guns, capture the leader, retreat to the Wing and play by the ear from there. But the Aussie couldn't leave Tammy putting her trust in him without protection, so he didn't rush forward and didn't find out that the glass sheets could rotate further and form a long gap pouring numerous RIA agents down like a rain…

"If you are really as noble as you claim, then help us!" Foxglove shouted. "We need to get into the building secretly, and—" She fell silent watching the slightly lowered muzzles of the dart guns rise up again.

"What did you say?" The head agent put his paw to his ear, as if having misheard. "Get into the building secretly? Aren't you aware that it's a restricted area, and we are fully entitled to shoot you after these words?"

"Entitled by whom, huh?" Chip inquired in a steady voice, using his tail to show his friends he was going to take care of the leader and they should board the plane and ram through. His idea found little support. On the contrary, Monterey Jack told Tammy to get off him with a corner of his mouth, while Dale began to unscrew himself out of Foxglove's wings slowly and quietly.

"The Patriot Act, among other things."

Reference to the Human legislation was the last thing Chip expected to hear. "Do you obey Human laws?"

"There's no other."

Chip felt a glimmer of hope. "Maybe you obey the Human President, too?"

"I obey the RIA Director only!" The rat objected.

Chip didn't back down. "Does he obey the President?"

"It's classified information!"

"You were going to kill us anyways, so what's the difference?"

Enmity didn't prevent the RIA representative from feeling something like sympathy to the chipmunk still keeping his chin up. There was also logic in his words. And the information, to tell the truth, wasn't really classified. "In theory, he is answerable to him."

"In theory?"

The intelligence rat grinned. "How else? The President doesn't speak Rat."

"And if he had a rat?"

The RIA agent raised his left brow. "What rat?"

"An ordinary rat. A pet. The First Rat. Would your Director be answerable to him?"

"In theory?"

"And in practice."

"I can't say. There were no precedents."

"But still? Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically?" The rat thought deeply, searching for a catch. Sure, these 'rescuers' could be just stalling for time while nurturing a hideous plan, but there were only six of them… "Hypothetically, he would be, I think."

"And some other animal? Not a rat but, say, a dog? Or a canary?"

"You really think my Director would answer to a canary?"

"The First Canary," Chip made an important clarification. "And, as far as I know, the law encompasses all animals, birds, fish, and even houseplants if not stated otherwise."

Grunting sounds came from the Wing's direction. Dale, his fist in his mouth, tried hard to muffle irresistible horse laugh caused by him imagining a pompous RIA director reading a multi page report to the president's favorite cactus.

Fortunately, the rat didn't have such a vivid imagination, so he repeated dryly: "Probably. But there were no such precedents, too!"

"And what about chipmunk?"

"What chipmunk?"

"The First Chipmunk," Chip rolled his eyes, as if trying to remember. "He was called Chip or something like that. Were you answerable to him?"

"Basically, we were," the RIA agent acknowledged. "But, again, in theory. He never came and never requested our report, so—"

"He came now. He's right in front of you. I am the First Chipmunk."

The seven impregnable shooters were so impressed by Chip's words that hadn't the triggers of their weapons been stiff enough, numerous victims would have inevitably followed. Their leader was flabbergasted at first, too, but quickly regained his senses and grinned mistrustfully. "The First Chipmunk? You? You think I'll fall for that?"

"Are you blind not to recognize him?!" Dale shouted. No matter how hard he tried, he didn't manage to slip out of Foxglove's embrace, so he approached the negotiation spot along with her. "They showed him on all the TVs! Forgot that?!"

"No, of course not! How could I? I remember everything perfectly!" The RIA agent protested. "As soon as I saw you, I realized your friend is the spitting image of the First Chipmunk!"

"So what's the problem then?"

"Problem?" The rat was openly mocking now. "No problem! Your friend looks exactly like the First Chipmunk! Like his twin! Like his copy! Like his clone…! JUST LIKE ANY OTHER CHIPMUNK!"

His shout made even Monterey Jack to back off involuntarily, and Dale almost switched places with Foxglove. Gadget's patience had run but she couldn't decide whether to jump-kick the rat in his jaw or first punch him in his abdomen first to make him double up. Thus Chip had time to lead the conversation in the right direction. "Do you think all chipmunks have scars after being run through with a rifle dart?"

The rat moved his whiskers apprehensively. "No idea. But I think some of them do."

"So you agree that there can't be many of such chipmunks?"

"I don't have the statistics." The agent had an unpleasant gut feeling and tried to give vague answers.

Chip read it and decided to get straight to the point. He silently yanked his jacket open and moved fur on his chest apart. "See the stitches? One was put into the wound, the other into the surgical cut. Both were sewn with dissolvable sutures. No rodent can do that, only humans."

The rat bent forward and thoughtfully poked at the stitches' edges to see whether they were only stickers. Gadget could easily break his finger or even tear it away along with the hand, and only Chip's resolute stare kept her from violence.

"Alright," the RIA agent said when the scars held up. "But the First Chipmunk had an exit wound, too."

"I'll have to take off my jacket for that."

The RIA agent suspiciously looked at the Rangers, then looked up to make sure his rats were in position, then stepped aside to give the dart gunners a clear line of fire. "Take it off. Slowly! And keep all four paws visible!" he ordered.

Trying hard not to make any unneeded movements, Chip took his jacket off, held it in his outstretched hand and turned his back to the rat. "It's in the center of the left white strip, two fingers below the shoulder blade. Will you find it yourself or should I show you?"

"Show it."

"Gadget, can you help?" Chip asked. He knew how distressing everything about his injury was for Gadget, but he thought it would be safer to ask her than hothead Dale. And much more pleasant, for that matter. The inventor stoically fulfilled her husband's request and moved fur apart in the designated spot, revealing a broad stitch on the spot where the dart's nose came out.

"Satisfied?" The mouse asked sullenly.

"Yes, I think so…" The rat gulped with a visible effort. "Mister First Chipmunk, I… I didn't know, I wasn't informed, couldn't even imagine… Can I be of any service?"

Chip nodded. "You can. I will be very grateful if you tell your friends to lower their weapons. It's cold out here, and my arm is getting numb."

"Sure, sir!" The agent signaled his subordinates, and the darts synchronously targeted the ground. "Forgive us. It's a dangerous time, terrorists are everywhere, one must always stay on alert—"

"Don't worry, I understand you perfectly!" Chip waved off, dressing up. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Smelly. Operational officer in charge Smelly."

"Great. Do you have any first name?"

"I do. George."

"Nice to meet you, George," the chipmunk extended his hand. "And I'm Chip."

"And your second name is…"

"It's a long story, and we have no time for that at the moment. See, George, we've got a very important and urgent matter at hand…"

* 45 *

The CIA Headquarters is not a place for screaming, so Branson refrained from loud exclamations despite having a good reason for them, for he and John were taken nowhere else but to the Safe Meeting Room. This unassuming name was given to the most surveillance-proof room in the whole building, if not in the entire world. Humongously expensive complex of biometric identification, double doors with a lock-chamber, independent ventilation system with filters like at a nuclear power plant; in other words, everything to allow the noble gentlemen gathered in the room to freely discuss ordinary life-and-death questions like 'what's going on?' and 'what we should do about it?'

The Agency brought forward to the debates quite an impressive team consisting of its own Director Eliot Pryce, a high-ranking NCS officer Robert Cunningham whom Branson had already met, and a square-faced and square-haircut athlete already somewhat out of his former shape, whom Pryce introduced as Alistair Simpson, Head of Special Defences for CIA NCS. The absence of Simpson's direct superior, Director of NCS, didn't come as a surprise for Branson for two reasons. First, the name of the acting head of NCS was a closely kept secret. Second, de-facto Simpson took orders from Simpson himself which was logical since it was hard to imagine the hands receiving commands not from the brain directly but, say, via a rectum. The presence of SD's head meant the conversation would be very serious, and also that Branson and Blunt would be outnumbered, and it would be much harder for them than at Horizon. On the other hand, the Secret Service agents had two trump cards: the recording of Brightman's conversation with Pryce, which could easily act as the third man on their side, and the initiative which was always important in situations like this.

"Please, gentlemen, have a seat!" Pryce encouraged his guests. The room looked pretty basic and it was hard to believe that the walls decorated with photos and ornamental lights hid not the other offices but a wide cavity filled with security sensors and noise generators creating an impenetrable sound screen. "Coffee?"

"Coffee," Branson agreed. He had read somewhere that drinking so much magic broth made from seeds was detrimental to your health, but when you need to hold through the day, and afterwards, most probably, to last through the night, the dieticians' advice falls by the wayside.

"Thought so," the Director pointed at the table in the opposite corner with everything needed to make any kind of coffee. "But we have a self-service here; please, don't it amiss."

"Sure thing!" Trevor grinned and went in the indicated direction. "John, want some?"

"Yes, Trev, thank you! Two spoons of coffee, same for sugar and cream!"

"Same for me, please!" Simpson asked.

"I'd be glad to, but, alas, you have a self-service here," Trevor informed him with grief but without stopping grinning. The SD head suffered the refusal stoically. For a man whose predecessor was killed by an exploded oxygen tank and was currently being accused of nothing less but planning to create his own army of killer rodents he was very confident and calm. Apparently, the hand of internal investigation hadn't reached him yet. Or maybe, it never will, for he had nothing to do with the MAP and couldn't have at all.

The news of Reginald MacMillan designating Simpson as his deputy was a great surprise for the latter. True, they had worked together several times before that, including the Operation Dark Wing, with MacMillan praising his efforts highly each and every time, but Alistair had never even dreamt of becoming the second man in the Special Defences for the CIA NCS. And when upon barely leaving the Lufthansa airliner which brought him home the intelligence agent was told that MacMillan perished, and that he was entitled with performing his responsibilities until the end of the official investigation, he even briefly fell into stupor. But then he quickly snapped out of it, got sworn into this very important position and made a good enough impression for the Director of the CIA to raise his unfaltering hand and remove a short but unpleasant word 'interim' from his title.

"I'm finished, you're free to use it yourself!" Trevor announced when Simpson showed no intention to leave his chair.

"Thanks, I'll do it later!"

Despite obvious feats in the field of cloak and dagger, Simpson obviously lacked experience of 'peaceful' confrontations; otherwise he would have got up and made himself coffee according to the voiced specifications. But Alistair remained seated, showing that his 'request' was nothing more than a tactical move in an attempt to make his opponent serve him, thus acknowledging his higher rank. The fact that Branson understood it instantly couldn't justify Simpson's actions, for one must play situations like that to the very end. But the intelligence officer retreated, and the first serve was won by the Secret Service. And while a good start is half victory, it was too early to relax.

"So, Mister Branson," Pryce said when the black-skinned agent took his seat. "What did you want to discuss with me?"

"You're right, I wanted to discuss everything with you," Branson eloquently waved his hand in the direction of Simpson and Cunningham seated to the right and the left of their boss, respectively.

"A fair comment. But Alistair and Robert are the first people I would discuss our conversation with, so I thought it would be easier to allow them to be present than retell everything from my memory. Do you agree?" Pryce was openly stretching the truth, for even a schoolboy would know their conversation was being recorded.

"I agree," Trevor nodded after some obvious hesitation. "I don't think Mister Cunningham would survive the second rude dismissal during one day. He's also the next person on my witness list, so I thank you for saving the precious time for all of us."

The CIA agents tensed visibly. Pryce's face, already as if worked on with a grindstone, became so sharp it was unclear how his glasses hadn't fallen down yet. But Branson didn't allow them to say a word and went straight to the point. "So, here's the first question. Tell me about cooperation between the CIA and Horizon Corporation."

"What exactly do you want to know?" The Agency Director asked without batting an eye and without even trying to deny anything. Either that call from Brightman told him everything he needed, or the scientist called him again to tell about the lighter trick. Trevor decided it was the latter. The head of such a corporation couldn't be an idiot.

"The MAP and everything related to it."

"It's tons of documents. You want to have them all?"

"It's unneeded at the moment, especially since I'm not well-versed in all those transformations of neutrons. I would like to know how close to the truth are the facts voiced by Stan Blather."

Pryce looked at the SD head. "Very close," Simpson said quickly.

"About MacMillan, too?"

"What about MacMillan? He wasn't involved in Snow's schemes, he even wanted to put an end to them."

"What was he doing at the hospital?"

Simpson looked back at his boss. Pryce shrugged. "We don't know that. Maybe you could enlighten us?"

That's where it all comes from! Branson realized. From the very top! I wonder why…

"According to Blather, he wanted to kill that chipmunk," he said aloud.

"Is that a capital offence?"

"No idea, ask your mouse-assassin."

"MAPs had nothing to do with it!" Cunningham lost his nerve. "Stop pretending, Branson! You are fully aware of what we're talking about!"

"I am," the Secret Service agent acknowledged. "I'm just waiting for you to accuse me openly, so I have what to sue you for and what to tell at a press-conference. So feel free to say everything you want, nobody can eavesdrop on us here."

The faces of the CIA agents showed that were it up to them, Branson wouldn't leave the room alive. But then Pryce forced out a thin smile, and his tensed subordinates reclined in their armchairs. Like two Dobermans who felt the order to jump down a target's throat wouldn't come and they could go on lying at their master's feet. "Forgive Robert this edginess, Mister Branson. I'm sure he meant nothing wrong."

"I believe it," Trevor lied. "I believe you. But still, are you sure MacMillan wasn't involved in the attempt to kill the President?"

"Isn't it obvious from the recording?"

"Yes, it's an obvious conclusion, but he could, say, change his mind in the last moment and then just keep playing to the gallery—"

"Listen, you!" This time Simpson was the one to lose his nerve. "I worked with Reginald many times! He did things you can't even imagine to keep you safe and sound! He was a hero! Hero and Patriot, with capital letters! How many lives have you saved personally? How many?! And he saved thousands! So take your dirty accusations and stick them where the sun doesn't shine!"

Actually, Branson's 'doubt' was just a little revenge for all the slander against him. But Alistair's outcry made him wonder whether he stepped on the Black Table's tail accidentally. The voices of Simpson and 'the Godfather' differed like night and day, but the narrative was strikingly similar… "Did you know about the upcoming show?"

"You mean, before it aired?" Pryce asked.

"Yes."

"Of course, not!"

"And if you did?" Blunt joined the conversation. "What would you do?"

"I'm sorry but I won't answer provocative hypothetical questions."

"Wise," Trevor acknowledged. "I try to avoid that, too. But still I don't get it. Blather spoke of facts which were almost impossible to unearth without attracting attention. Say, he mentioned talking to Brightman about that phony company Snow had worked for. Brightman didn't tell you about it? Really?"

Eliot Pryce pursed his lips and looked at his opponent thoughtfully. "He did."

"And what did you do about it?"

"I made some inquiries, called Blather's boss."

"Jefferson?"

"Of course, not. He's too unimportant for me to call him."

"You know who he is?" Blunt asked quickly.

The head of the CIA looked at him with poorly concealed indulgence. "Of course I do. He is the news director of New York's Channel Six. Or rather, he was. I heard he was killed tonight."

"From whom?"

"People wrote on the internet."

"Do your people confirm the reporters' words?" Trevor inquired.

"My people?" Pryce pretended not to understand.

"Yes, your people. Those who shadowed Jefferson and got away as soon as the things got out of hand."

* 46 *

"Golly, where are they?" Gadget wondered looking around a well-furnished room with nobody in it.

"Is this the office of the Director?" Chip asked for clarification.

"It is, it is! Look!" Smelly hooked up a barely visible cut on the wall of the ventilation shaft, opening a sign glued to the dropped down lid containing the name and the position of the owner of the office directly beneath them. These signs were everywhere, but it would be impossible to find them without George's help.

Dale rejoiced. "I told you, they're in the secret bunker! Can you take us there, Smell?"

"There's no need to," Chip said. The RIA officer sighed in relief. The second round of negotiations would be too much for him.

…When they were almost halfway there, Officer Smelly suddenly realized that Chip had voluntarily left the position of the First Chipmunk and thus didn't have the necessary security clearance to access the state secrets and sensitive locations anymore, and can no longer demand the provision of the RIA activity report. Since George had previously chewed Chip's ear on this report and the need to meet the RIA Director, the leader of the Rescue Rangers happily agreed with the last point, while fiercely rejecting the first two. Smelly never lacked obstinacy, too, and their argument came to a stalemate, but then Dale broke in. His dogmatic statement that the First Chipmunk, like all the human presidents, was considered a life-long carrier of the state secrets, was protected by the Secret Service, and, finally, proved his loyalty to the country with both his deeds and his blood, ultimately tipped the balance in the Rangers' favor, and George had never raised this question from that point on. The argument 'He's not a trembling creature, he has the right!', voiced in a proper way in a dimly lit corridor and backed up by a long quote from 'Pulp Fiction' is inherently irrefutable…

"What do you mean, there's no need to?!" Dale exclaimed. "We came here to spy on them!"

"Zipper's already spying on them, and we can't miss this chance!" His friend answered. "So I propose to change the plan and search the office instead! Any objections? Stop raising your hand, Dale, I won't count it. And why are you against it, George?"

"Because it's a forbidden territory!"

Chip moved his paw from his forehead to his cheek. "George, we've discussed that already—"

"We discussed this!" The rat moved his hand around him, then pointed at the grate. "But not that!"

"And what's down there?" Dale shoved his head through the grate and sniffed. "No radiation, no germs, rat poison not detected… What's the problem, Smell?"

"What's the problem?! Are you nuts?! It's HUMAN territory! No one's allowed to go there! Even Director Longtail doesn't go there!"

Now I see why we haven't met before… Chip realized. For the first time in his life he felt an urge to lip strum while pulling the corners of his eyes down with his index fingers. How else could one react to the news that the agents of the most secretive intelligence service in the animal world who live right in the CIA Headquarters never go into Human territory?

"Yes, we don't go there!" The RIA agent repeated, looking at the Rangers frozen in various picturesque poses. "Why?"

"Why what?" Chip had to help his jaws with his hands in order to say a word. "Sneak into the human offices? How else would you know what's going on in the building?"

"There's no need to sneak anywhere for that. Monitoring the bulletin boards is more than enough to be in touch! They write when the food remnants are taken out of the kitchen, what section of the vent is currently under maintenance, when the next deratization is going to be… In short, everything!"

"And that's it?" Gadget wondered being the next to come to her senses. "What about the latest developments in the supersecret labs, the cutting edge of science and technology?! They don't write that on bulletin boards!"

"And they don't have to! We have our own developments!"

"No offense, George, but the glass plates on the hinges are not just century but two centuries old!"

"And how about concealed transmitters?" Smelly felt so hurt to hear such things about his agency he forgot of conspiracy and showed a button-sized object sewed to the lining of his collar. "I can use it to communicate with any RIA agent, no matter where they are!"

So that's why he agreed to accompany us alone… Chip realized. He voiced another question, though. "Do those things work in ventilation? There's metal, wires, fans everywhere…"

"That's a secret!"

"Keep your secrets," Gadget allowed. "But as for me, I would use inductive retransmitters feeding from the power cables. Not too powerful so they wouldn't cause a pick-up effect on the nearby wires, and very simple to produce to make enough of them to cover the entire building. Say, based on RFID chips working in a centimeter or, even better, a millimeter range…"

George became white like a bleached bedsheet. "H-how… How do you know all that?!"

"Simple!" Chip answered. "It's genius!"

Smelly thought he was praising his Agency and colored up with pride, but then Dale entered the conversation with his habitually global thinking. "How could it be, Smell?! You wrapped the whole building in your web, the whole CIA is under your microscope, your paw covers half of the world, and you… and you do NOTHING!"

"No! We do! We watch the kitchen, monitor the bulletin boards—"

"You don't do a darned thing!" The Rescue Ranger broke him off. He couldn't even imagine how one could hold the CIA by their throat and not attempt to conquer Earth in order to fully exterminate the Evil and establish Peace in the entire world. "I alone do more! They wrote about me in the newspapers! They showed me on TV! And you?! Who knows about you at all?! Nobody! What do you call that?!"

"Secrecy," the intelligence agent answered calmly and with dignity.

"Shmecrecy!" Dale mocked him. "You call sitting in a dark closet and shouting 'Occupied!' secrecy? What use is that of?"

"But there's no harm in it!" The rat objected fervently. "We're not the Pentagon warmongrats who make mess wherever they like and chew on everything not covered with concrete! We're an elite secret organization with old traditions, strict discipline and our own code of honor!"

"And a lack of bra— OUCH!" Dale was forced to stop talking because of a sudden dull pain in the base of his tail, caused by his body's brief contact with Chip's right toes.

"What?!" Smelly frowned.

"Transport!" Chip said. "Fortunately, we brought everything along. Won't you arrange a lift for us, my love?"

"One second!" Gadget stopped studying the secret sign and took the contraption resembling an umbrella off her back. Actually, it was indeed an umbrella, with most of its handle cut away, its ribs radically shortened, and a toe of a nylon sock pulled over them. This 'umbrella' couldn't protect from the rain, but could easily transport two chipmunks and one mouse as far vertically downwards as the coiled fluorocarbon fishing line went.

"You… You want to go down there?!" George's scream was a mixture of threat and terror.

Chip shrugged. "Why not? We're not the RIA agents, we don't need to observe the taboo!"

Smelly was stupefied by this irrefutable fact. Only his pupils moved, alternatively converging to this nose bridge and then moving equidistantly away from it. His laborious thinking resulted in a conclusion to address his superiors, and he reached for his collar. "I need to call the Director!"

Dale waved his hand. "Be our guest! We don't obey him!"

"But I do!"

"We know that, George, but you aren't going there," Chip observed reasonably.

The speed of the agent's paw decreased in half. "Yes, but, actually, we are ordered to impede any—"

"Try it," Gadget said 'indifferently', as she studied her nails 'absent-mindedly'. Smelly gulped. A thought had occurred to him at the very beginning that she and the MAP were the same mouse, but at first he didn't believe it, then was afraid to ask, and now he was simply afraid…

And when you're afraid of someone, do you help them? Or call for reinforcements…?

"But really, George?" Chip spoke seeing that the rat was going to make a wrong choice. "Why don't you go to human territory? What exactly are you afraid of?"

He was right in his calculations. Smelly couldn't leave these questions unanswered. "We're not afraid!" He puffed his cheeks. "We avoid the risk of detection! If they find out or even just suspect the RIA exists, we'll be doomed!"

"You think if humans see a rat in their office, they'll instantly deduce the existence of the RIA?"

"Sure! They won't see an ordinary rat but a professional agent!"

"They'll see a buffoon, not a professional agent…" Dale muttered into Gadget's ear.

Chip heard him, too; moreover, he completely agreed with him, but Smelly didn't need to know that. "And how will they know there's a professional agent before them? You all look just like ordinary rats."

"What?!" George grew indignant. "Are you crazy?! We look like ordinary rats?! What about overcoats? Glasses? IDs?!"

Chip didn't believe his ears. "IDs?"

"Yes! Here!" Smelly took a plastic card out of his pocket, almost indistinguishable from the human analogues. Only size and a face in the photo could raise suspicions.

"They got IDs, now they need brains…" Dale commented in an even lower voice.

The mouse giggled mutedly, and her husband had to divert the rat's attention with the next question. "But if it's only about the clothing and the IDs, you can leave them in a hidden place before going out, and then pick up when you return…"

George looked at the chipmunk as if he were a possessed sacrileger. "Leave the clothing and ID behind?! You're nuts! If I do that, I'll become an ordinary brown rat!"

Dale laughed. "You say it as though it's something bad!"

"Of course it is! It's very bad! It's the worst thing that can ever happen! It's degradation! Decay! Breaking of the foundations…!"

"Brain bust…"

"…Confusion and mayhem… What?"

"No-no, go on! Those words are new to me!"

"But not to me!" Chip interjected. "Another question: if the humans spot a common brown rat without clothing or IDs, will they find out about the RIA existence?"

Smelly scratched his whiskers. "They shouldn't, why would they?"

The Rescue Ranger rubbed his paws happily. "Great! So we can go down there!"

"Why?!"

"Because we aren't RIA agents, we carry no compromising IDs, not to mention that we aren't rats at all! Agreed?"

Chip's iron logic proved too hard for Smelly to digest, and he retreated back behind the fortification line. "I need to call the Director!"

Dale couldn't stand it anymore. "Go on, call him! Show him and the others you're worth nothing without the hint from above! I'm sure he'll praise that! And we'll search the office in the meantime! When we are back, tell us about your and the Director's decision! Beam us down, Gadget!"

The mouse, yearning for the real work, quickly freed the hook fastened to the line coil and began to search actively for the best place to attach it to. Dale tried to help her on top of his strength and imagination, while Chip kept his wary eye on Smelly. Dale's words hurt the agent's self-esteem, and now it fought against his urge to play by the book. Fortunately, as it often happens with rats, the ego won.

"Uhm, you know, I thought that we shouldn't bother the Director with mere trifles. We, the RIA officers, are trained to deal with everything on our own…"

"Glad to hear that!" Chip jumped up to him and grabbed his paw. "Thanks for your assistance! Can you stay on guard? Then connect me with your friends, I've got a couple of assignments for them…"

* 47 *

It's hard to say for sure what and how strongly it smelled of that night on the intersection of 62 East and Lexington, but in the room for secret meetings the air was literally saturated with the feeling of impending mayhem.

"What do you mean by that?" Pryce asked slowly.

"That after Blather's show went on air, it would've been very stupid of you not to put him and everyone involved in its creation under surveillance. Even I would have done it, and you aren't dumber than me. Will you object?"

Blunt was simultaneously mesmerized and terrified by his friend's manner of talking to the CIA senior staff. He constantly glanced at the door, expecting security guards to arrive any second, and his and Trevor's guns they were asked to put on a side table, which they would definitely need in case of trouble. But Trevor, apparently, knew what he was doing and had the situation under control.

Or maybe, he was just allowed to do it…?

"I won't," the CIA Director said and looked at Cunningham. "Robert, it's your department. Enlighten our guest."

The NCS officer coughed and adjusted his glasses. "Well, we did send groups to keep watch over Blather, Jefferson, Jefferson's secretary, and Susan Spaulding, the Channel Six TV director."

"Were your people watching Jefferson when he was killed?"

"They did."

"How did it happen?"

"Jefferson's driver stopped at the traffic lights. The red light was on for an unusually long time, and some drivers left their cars. That's when they appeared."

"They?"

"According to my men, there were two of them. They came simultaneously from the opposite sides and stood by the driver's window, and then vanished in a few seconds. Then someone saw the bodies, started shouting…"

Branson nodded with understanding. The scheme was simple as an ice-pick. Two men approach the car, covering the doors and each other with their bodies. One of them knocks at the glass, the other takes out his gun… "Faces? Marks?"

"Nothing. Our agents were in the same lane four cars away, they saw very little."

"That's sad. What about Blather?"

"Blather was put under surveillance yesterday in the morning. He left the studio before everyone else and our agents couldn't intercept him on his way."

"So the van that Blather told Coolidge about, wasn't yours?"

"No. We're searching for it ourselves."

"When Blather went to Washington, did you follow him?"

"Sure."

"Did you watch over his house?"

Cunningham sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, no. Both our agents followed Blather to New York, where he boarded the helicopter, then stopped for a repast. When they returned to Maplewood, his house was already on fire."

"So it wasn't you who installed bugs in his house?"

Only Zipper, whose reaction speed was ten times faster than that of the Humans, could see all the changes in Cunningham's facial expression in detail. For everyone else in the room it looked like a grimace from an electric shock.

"Bugs? You mean, surveillance devices? No. That is, we were going to, but didn't have time… There were bugs there?"

"There are reasons to suspect that."

"Really? Name at least one."

"Intuition."

"Not a very good reason," Simpson observed.

Branson shrugged. "You asked to name one. There are others, too, but we'll discuss them later. Presently I'd like to know your opinion about an interesting picture… Johnny?"

"Here!" Blunt quickly fetched a flash-drive out of his pocket and put it into his friend's extended hand.

"Thanks. I hope you've got a— Oh! We'll watch it using this!"

"Just a second—" Cunningham tried to object, not liking Branson's probing look at the digital table between them.

"Even faster!" Branson assured him prying up a lid over the sockets with his nail. "No, Mister Simpson, don't get up, I know how to use it! I've got a similar one in my department, if maybe slightly narrower. It's fifty inches wide, isn't it?"

"Fifty four," Pryce answered dryly, looking at the inserted flash drive with displeasure trenching upon disgust.

"Wow!" Trevor whistled in envy. "You've got a nice setup! Now I know where the taxpayers' money goes!"

"The reward comes with the efforts," Cunningham hinted poetically and subtly.

The Secret Service representative grinned in response. "Allow me to disagree. Of course, you are ahead of the planet in many ways, but this time we overtook you! Allow me, gentlemen, to introduce you to the first two known members of the mysterious and elusive Black Table!"

Two rapid taps against the sensor tabletop — and its dull black surface changed into the images of two faces: a black-haired bearded man with heavy features and a barefaced brunet with sunken cheeks and disproportionally large chin.

"Darn…" Cunningham muttered.

"Did you recognize them, Robert?" Pryce inquired.

"Maybe. I'm not sure… Where did you get them?"

"From the wife of Leroy Jackson; your employee, by the way. He perished in that building. Yesterday these two came to her home, introduced as the CIA agents and took a photo of her nephew, Samuel Jackson, also your employee who perished in that building, too. They said they needed the photo to identify Samuel's body, but tonight it was found in New York, namely in the office of late Tobias Jefferson. Am I clear?"

"Very," the CIA Director turned to Cunningham again, who was glumly studying his nails. "Did you know that, Robert?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"Can you explain how it happened that the Secret Service knows who, when, and why visited Officer Jackson's widow, and NCS doesn't?"

"I think I can," Cunningham raised his head and stared at Trevor intently. "Agent Branson is Leroy Jackson's old friend. And now his widow's."

Ever since his childhood, Branson had responded to every insult against Marjorie very sensitively and aggressively, and under different circumstances he wouldn't hesitate to kick Cunningham into his face. But he had no right to do that at the moment. If he let a slightest slip and fall for some provocation, he would be instantly laid off from the investigation, and Leroy and Samuel would remain unavenged for…

"Shame on you, Mister Cunningham," Trevor smiled, although only God knew what it cost him. "Is that your gratitude for our invaluable help in your investigation? For bringing two suspects in the destruction of your building and mass murder of your colleagues on a silver platter? I thought better of you!"

"Sorry for letting you down," Robert said through set teeth.

"Apologies accepted. So you say you know these guys?"

"I must have misheard, I never said that. Yes, at first glance one of them looks like a known terrorist, but we'll need to check and recheck that."

"Right you are. You should also check whether they kidnapped Blather."

"And how do you think I should do that?"

"If I were you, I'd start by asking the agents watching him. By the way, where were they when he was being thrown off the bridge?"

The others wanted to hear the answer, too. Cunningham found such an attention to his humble person uncomfortable and nervously reached into his pocket for the glasses rug.

"We're waiting, Robert," Simpson urged his colleague, noticing that Cunningham was in no rush to stop polishing lenses and get down to business.

"They lost him," Cunningham answered curtly.

"That's all you can say?" Pryce asked, his tone boding nothing good.

"Basically, yes. Unfortunately, my men chose a not very good parking place and saw only the kidnappers' backs. They also had to make a U-turn to continue the pursuit, but there was a solid lane line everywhere, and violating the traffic rules right in front of the police station would have had unpleasant consequences."

"Heroic fail," Blunt commented.

"Only those who do nothing never make mistakes," Cunningham muttered. He would have answered louder and rougher, but he felt his colleagues wouldn't back him up this time.

It was a suitable moment for a finishing blow along the lines of 'tell it to the victim's relatives', but Trevor decided to do without pathetics and addressed Pryce. "I need to look through the recordings of the interrogations of Snow and Ferrante."

"They have the highest level of secrecy. They can't be taken out of Langley."

"They needn't to. I'll work with them here."

"Alright, then—"

"And I need to question Ferrante. Personally."

"What for?" Simpson snapped.

"Because he's the only surviving immediate participant of the assassination attempt on the President I am currently investigating."

"Won't the records be enough?"

"I have my own methods."

"So it seems…"

"Enough, Alistair!" Pryce interrupted his subordinate. "Agent Branson's right. It's his job and we must readily assist him. Right, Robert?"

Cunningham nodded. "Absolutely."

"When will he be able to meet Ferrante?"

"In two days."

"Two days?" Trevor wondered. "You put him on the South Pole or what?"

"Is something wrong, Agent?"

"Just asking."

"It's not your business."

"No doubt of it."

"Exactly. By the way, can you do us a return favor?"

"Of course, not. And what do you want?"

"To question Stan Blather as an important witness in the case of the destruction of our building."

Branson parted his hands, showing complete helplessness. "You should ask a medium about that, not me."

Cunningham grinned predatorily. "Come on, Branson! You know better than me he's alive! Where is he?"

Trevor looked at his watch. "If I understand correctly, he is in the pathoanatomical section of the Walter Reed Medical Center where the autopsy will be performed—"

"Leave these fairy tales for the press, Branson!"

"What fairy tales? You missed his doctor's press-conference? If that's the case, I'll retell you everything—"

"Everything? I heard you right?" Simpson asked naggingly.

"You did if you washed your ears in the morning."

"Don't be rude, Mister Branson," Pryce admonished the agent softly, almost paternally. "We're aware who's behind you, but the patronage of the state leaders is fleeting, just like them."

Trevor drew himself up inwardly. These words were neither exaggeration nor sedition, but in the light of recent events and spoken by the CIA Director they sounded just a bit too significantly. First Simpson's flip, now Pryce's hints… There was obviously much to think about. "I'm glad you mentioned them, Director! President Logan is interested in finding the truth like nobody else, so he took the investigation under his control and told his wife to verify Blather's diagnosis personally. I hope you don't doubt her qualification and impartiality?"

"Doctor will not spoil doctor's anamnesis…" The Head of Special Defences muttered.

"For your information, Mister Simpson, insulting the First Lady is a cognizable case."

"I didn't insult the First Lady!"

"Agreed. I said that as preventive care."

"You really need some preventive care yourself!"

"Go ahead."

Simpson, red with anger, drew forward, but his boss' commanding voice stopped him. "Enough, gentlemen, we're civilized people! Alistair, why don't you make us all some tea?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," Branson rejected. "We're leaving."

"What?!" The CIA agents gaped. Blunt said nothing, but looked at his friend with undisguised surprise, too.

"Alas," Trevor made a helpless gesture with his hands, or rather, one hand, his other one searching for the way to safely remove the flash drive. "It would be my pleasure to drink tea in such a pleasant company, but I must run to write accounts, deliver reports, get earfuls… well, you know the drill. Mister Pryce, did I get it right that I can come tomorrow to watch the Snow interrogations?"

"Yes, from 2 PM."

Trevor smiled with his kindest smile. "Any way to start at noon?"

"From 2 PM," the head of the Agency repeated steadfastly.

"Alright, I'll come at two. Thanks for your time and coffee. I'll leave the photos as souvenirs and Mister Cunningham's homework. By the way, Robert, have you made the list of those who had access to the Capitol recording already?"

"No, I waited for your reminder," the NCS representative didn't miss the opportunity to jest.

"You flatter me! Any objections against us studying it together?"

"Yes! It's top secret information for internal usage only…"

"And my colleague has clearance for it." Branson looked at his still a little confused friend. "Right, John?"

"Absolutely right! Mister Pryce, didn't they call you?"

"They did," Pryce acknowledged. He could say nothing, though, his face showing everything clearly.

"In that case, we'll come here again at 2 PM tomorrow. Best of luck! Come on, Johnny! Oh, and don't forget your weapon!"

"And don't forget your lighter," the CIA Director reminded them.

"Oh, please, I consider you too clever for that!" Branson answered with a smile crossing the airlock's threshold. Zipper, who was hiding under his collar, wanted badly to stay back in the room, but Chip's instructions strictly dictated him to follow Branson, so the Ranger stayed where he was. Had he stayed awhile and listened to the words spoken in the room afterwards, the events would have probably taken a not so sorrowful turn…

* 48 *

Despite Chip's ironic disposition towards the RIA, their communications were top-notch. At least, Monterey's voice from the speaker sounded as loudly and clearly as if he was standing by his side and not outside, where he, Tammy and Foxglove were watching the building's entrance while also keeping their eye on the Ranger Wing. Just for precaution's sake.

"What's the range of this thing?" Chip asked upon finishing his talk as he fumbled the transmitter button in his nails.

"This model has fifty tails!" Smelly said with pride.

"Tails?" Gadget asked. "Hmm, SI doesn't have that, for sure… It's a new Imperial unit?"

"I think it's rather an old Rat one," her husband suggested.

"Not Rat but RIA's!" George corrected him. "Very flexible system which stood the test of time, by the way! Three nails — a finger, four fingers — a paw, ten paws — a tail…"

"Thirty eight parrots — a boa," Dale continued the logic series.

"What boa? The next units are jump, throw…"

"Thank you, George! Thank you, we've got the idea!" Chip waved his hands to attract the attention of the engrossed rat. "One tail is approximately like yours?"

"Yes, something like that. Actually, the standard tail is Director Longtail's one, but mine is just a little shorter, that's why I occupy such an important position. But there's no limit for me! I am still young and I dream of growing to be the Director one day!"

"Good for you. Fifty tails, you say?" The chipmunk looked into the vent and guesstimated the height of the walls. "A little too short… Well, stay here, then. When our friends contact you, shout. Gadget, is the elevator ready?"

"Utterly and completely!" The mouse reported, vigorously rotating the handle controlling the line roll's rotation speed and allowing to set the needed descend depth.

"Great! You and Dale climb onboard, and I will—"

"Wait!" Smelly grew alarmed. "They have cameras there!"

"—check the cameras," Chip finished his phrase and took a dental mirror with a long metal handle off his back. It had seen much during its medical career, but only on the Rescue Ranger's service it was able to really see the world and meet really interesting things. Such as the security camera installed right in front of the door to the CIA Director's office. It's wide-angle lens couldn't catch the entire room, though, so the camera was monotonously rotating from side to side.

"What do you think of it?" Chip asked his wife.

"No problem!" Gadget 'reassured' him. "The elevator has the express descent mechanism! It's high time to test it!"

If Chip could, he would gladly switch places with Smelly. But he doubted the agent would break the taboo for him. And the elevator wasn't designed for rats. "Okay…" he said hopelessly, stepping on one of the ominously extended cogs and lowering his mirror so that he could see the camera. "At my signal… Three. Two. One. Rescue Rangers—"

"Down!" The mouse happily jerked the handle. The released rope started to unwind rapidly, and if the chipmunks hadn't grabbed the axial bar, chances were they would remain hanging in the air. Not too long, of course. Even so, it took them very little time to reach the floor, for the express descent mechanism justified its name fully. The security camera couldn't even finish its current turn, and the Ranger Elevator platform was already only a quarter of an inch away from the floor, dangling and spinning around its axis. But then Gadget pressed the latch protruding from the umbrella's handle, and the spike hidden within it jabbed into the carpeting, literally nailing the platform to the floor and allowing its passengers to safely get down on the floor.

"Perfect!" Chip concluded, making sure that the water cooler between them and the camera was completely obscuring them. The line stretching up into the ceiling wasn't a problem, too, since Gadget carefully chose the material with the least refraction coefficient, and only someone with an eagle's eye could see it against the walls on the display screen. "I don't know how much time we have, so we should act fast. Where will we start? HEY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!"

"There!" Dale shouted, running towards the working table at the far wall with the speed and the grace of an ostrich.

"I think he's interested in the computer," Gadget suggested.

"I'll show him the computer right away…" Her husband grumbled threateningly moving after his friend, but the mouse grabbed him by his shoulder. "Stop! Camera!"

Indeed, at that moment the surveillance device started turning in their direction, and the couple of Rangers had to wait for the danger to pass. In the meantime Dale had studied the entire space under the table, knocked at all the surfaces and tried the handles of all drawers. That's why he met his friends with a bewildered and frightened scream: "They locked the PC!"

"See! I was right!" The mouse beamed. Chip was filled with opposite emotions which he quickly expressed with a resonant bonk.

"What for?!" Dale demanded.

"To make the message clear! Don't run around like mad! Forgot where we are?!"

"You said we should act fast!"

"I didn't mean that!"

"You did!"

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

"Wow! Just look at that!"

"You did! I didn't! WHAT?!" The chipmunks turned to Gadget's voice who started studying the surroundings in their 'absence' and was currently trying to stick her head into the hole in the bottom of the desk's side box where a bundle of cables stuck from and went into the floor somewhere.

"System unit is there," Dale said. "I'm telling you, they locked it!"

"Sure they locked it! Of course they locked it! I would have locked this PC myself and put the traps everywhere around it! Just look at that exhaust!" The mouse pointed at the grate embedded into the wood in front of the system unit's rear wall. "How much power could that be! I won't be surprised if it has USB 3.0 and FireWire-d already! Anybody got a flashlight? I must see this!"

"We don't have time for that, dear," Chip tried to reason with her softly.

No matter how Dale felt towards Gadget, this time he was fully on his friend's side. "Right! Let's open it and power up!"

Chip hemmed. "What sense will it make? Everything's probably password-protected here, and we didn't bring out hacking flash drives with us."

"Why did we go down here then?"

"To dig through the papers. You'll be shocked, I know, but many people still use this ancient material…"

Dale waved him off. "Oh, please, don't talk like some engine of progress! Papers are okay. It won't be the first time!"

"Just be careful with the shredder! I remember that one time when—"

"Stop remembering it!" Dale ruffled up, angered by his friend's good memory and a flow of re-experienced sharpness of the mentioned shredder's blades.

The shredder in question belonged to Captain Spinelli, head of the 5th police precinct. During one of their regular visits to his office the red-nosed chipmunk was told to check if there was anything of interest among the shredded papers. It was a routine and trivial task, but since it was the early morning, and Dale had spent the previous night on the Internet, he climbed not into the wastebasket, but into the shredder itself. Just like when he ended up in the washing machine, fast and concerted efforts of the other team members prevented the tragedy, but for a long time after the incident Dale's not very bushy tail resembled a sharpened pencil…

This time there were no incidents. But there were no results, too. In contrast with Spinelli's shredder, Pryce's device didn't cut the paper but grinded it into a fine dust. There was very little of it in the waste bin, giving Chip reason to suspect that no mass documents destruction had occurred before Branson's visit. On the other hand, it could possibly mean that the shredded documents contained truly important, or even outright compromising information…

"Come think of it!" Dale swore as he plucked paper granules out of his fur. "This Director has a surveillance camera, a cool PC, a killer shredder, an electric water trough, in other words, everything you'd want! But he has no paper bin! It's a real parallax!"

"No, I don't think so," Gadget allowed herself a shadow of doubt. "I mean, it could be for us, but the Human would be too large for this office to deviate from the normal line for a large enough angle to make any comprehensible observations. Sure, we could always use lasers—"

"Good thought, by the way!" Chip observed.

"Yes, I think so, too. Two lasers should be enough—"

"No, I mean the bin."

"Oh, I see now. What bin?"

"Paper bin."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's not here!"

"You noticed it only now?" Dale jested.

"No, but only now I realized how good it is for us. Since Pryce has no paper bin, he throws all unneeded papers into the shredder! Let's go check the drawers!"

Dale didn't want to acknowledge even to himself that his friend's train and logic of thought eluded him, so he nodded with a smart expression and went along with Chip and Gadget to the right stand with pullout drawers. Owing to the table facing the opposite wall to the camera, their actions went unnoticed, and unsophisticated by modern standards locks couldn't stop them. But they found nothing this time, too. Not that the trio really expected to find the list of Black Tables signed by Eliot Pryce personally, or a plan of operation codenamed 'Let's kill Stan Blather and take over the world!', but considering where they were, their catch could have been a little richer…

"Well," Chip summarized when the friends were back on the floor, "there are several options. Either everything useful for us went to shredder, or it's on the PC, or we're looking in the wrong place…"

The second chipmunk rejoiced. "Exactly! Let's look for secrets! There's probably a lot of them here! That's where they're hiding it all!"

Chip rounded his eyes. "Are they? I thought they had a supersecret bunker for that!"

"What bunker are you talking about?! Any fool could find that! The major secrets, like those with treasures worth a million points or elevators to the secret level, are always made in the least expected places! Like, in WCs or libraries…"

"Yeah, I think you wouldn't find anything in a library."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just a figure of speech, forget it… You have an idea, Gadget?"

"Yes," the mouse nodded thoughtfully without looking away from the system unit's box. "Probably. Maybe. That is, I've got an idea—"

"HEY! MISTER FIRST CHIPMUNK! ARE YOU STILL THERE?! HEY! COME IN!"

Dale looked in the direction of the shouts. "Is something wrong with my ears, or Smelly is indeed yelling?"

"Both," Chip assured him. "Stay here. I'll go find out what he wants!"

The RIA agent wanted not too much, so the chipmunk was back in less than thirty seconds despite having to wait for the camera to turn away. "Branson and Blunt are in the foyer already."

"Darn!" Gadget gave way to temper. "They'll get far away before we get out of here!"

"I doubt it. Monty arranged it so that they'll have to spend some time changing their tire. But we must still hurry! Let's run!"

Making sure they left no equipment pieces behind, the Rescue Rangers returned to the elevator tired of waiting for them and were quite unpleasantly surprised to hear that…

"WHAT?!" The chipmunks asked in unison upon hearing that the elevator wasn't designed to go up in express mode.

"It's true," Gadget made a helpless gesture. "I tried everything and found that the most efficient propulsor capable of lifting the weight of the device and cargo to the required height in short enough time is the Ranger Wing engine, but the installation of it would result in the elevator irreparably losing its inherent mobility, thus—"

"Thanks, I got it all," Chip stopped her. "Except one thing: how can we go up without being caught by the camera?"

Dale was the first to come up with the answer. "It won't catch us, we're too far away. I'm joking, I'm joking, why so nervous?"

Chip wrung his hands in an ostentatious manner. "Dale! How's that possible? You're not a rat! You've got different eyes, different paws, different ears, different tail, in other words, everything's different! Why then when I look at you I start thinking of a rat poison, huh?!"

"No idea, I'm not a doctor. Ask Tammy!" Dale advised him, missing the hidden subtext.

In contrast, Gadget saw more reason in her husband's words than he himself put into them. "It's brilliant, Chip! I know how to make us invisible to everyone! Follow me, boys!" She shouted the last phrase while running, or rather, leaping, and the chipmunks had no way of stopping her. Fortunately for them, the camera was looking the other way, and the mass dash back to the table had no unpleasant consequences.

"We've been here already. What's next?" Dale asked when they reunited.

"Next I thought if they see something else instead of us, it would be the same as becoming invisible to them!" Gadget eagerly answered a completely different question. "But it must be something strange, unexpected, intangible, indescribable—"

"And what's that?" Chip exercised his husband's right to interrupt her.

"A mirror, of course!"

Looking around and finding nothing like that, the chipmunks stared at the inventor quizzically. She laughed. "Not here! Up there! On the desk!"

"On the desk?" Chip asked. "Sure?"

"Sure I'm sure! Come on, get up there!"

Having nothing to counter Gadget's firmness with, the Sciuridae family representatives used the drawers' handles to get to the desktop, hid from the camera behind the LCD monitor's stand, and examined the desk. Except the mirror-smooth polishing, there was nothing like a mirror or a toiletry case among Director Pryce's belongings.

"See the rack?" Gadget asked from below.

"What rack?"

"Are there many of those?"

"No, just one, with the disks— DISKS!"

"Yeah, disks! As you probably know, during their manufacturing process they spray-coat their data layer with metal, usually some aluminum-based alloy, which gives the disk a mirror-like appearance and allows—"

While the infatuated mouse was vividly describing all the twists and turns of industrial manufacturing of optical disks of various generations, the chipmunks went to the rack and took out the exemplar of the latest of them, a rewritable Blu-Ray disk. The rack's contents were sorted by color, so the chipmunks had to climb to the top of the rack to get a colorless blank — the only one suitable for the role of the camouflage mirror.

"Now we know for sure that Pryce isn't color-blind!" Chip joked.

"I knew it the moment I saw that thingy," Dale said, pointing at the elaborate figurine standing on the desk. It consisted of fourteen ceramic or glass balls painted in white, blue, black, yellow, and red, connected with tubes of varying width, halves of them painted with the respective colors of the adjacent balls. It looked like an abstract image of some animal, its four 'feet'-balls resting on an elevated round mount made of some pretty precious wood, with gold letters embossed along its perimeter.

"Can you read what's written there?" Chip asked, being further away and having a worse view.

"I see only that some strange citrus finishes something, nothing else!"

"Strange?"

"It's written strangely! Probably the author hadn't eaten citruses for so long he forgot how to write the word!"

"Very funny…"

"Hey, what's taking you so long?!" Gadget shouted from below. She had just finished telling herself about interrelation between laser power modulation and the speed of active material switching from one aggregate state to another and was very surprised to find neither her friends nor a disk by her side.

"We're coming, dear!" Chip yelled back. "Go away from the desk, or you'll be crushed!"

"Be careful there!"

"Thank you! We're trying!"

"Actually, I was talking about the disk, since they are fragile and can be damaged by falling! But you take care, too!"

"You are very caring, Gadget! Are you ready, Dale? On three…"

At the right moment the Rangers pulled the plastic case. It was lighter than expected, and it flew out of the rack with a silent churr and slid to the very desk's edge. It swayed, as if having a fear of heights, but then continued moving and fell on the floor cover down.

"Perfect!" Gadget congratulated her friends who jumped down next. "That's exactly what we need! Take the disk to the elevator!"

"We should take it out first," Chip objected.

"Why? The case isn't heavy enough to be worthy of a roundtrip!"

"There will be no roundtrip. We should leave it right here."

"Leave it here?" Gadget looked at the case at her feet, then at the desk's edge high above. "Good thinking! And if we put it on its side, it would be even better!"

Chip beamed. "You're pure gold, my love! We'll do exactly that! Help me, Dale!"

"Just a second!" Dale shouted forming a letter T with his paws. "Until someone explains what's going on here—"

"It's called a false flag," Gadget said in her trademark happy voice. It boded ill to her enemies and inspired her friends for heroic deeds, so even Dale, unworldly in assassin's terminology and bewildered by her answer, went to help Chip take the disk out of its package with uncharacteristic vigor. Making it look like it opened on impact and turning it in the right direction, the Rangers returned to the elevator and impaled the disk on the radius facing the camera.

"You think it's large enough to cover us?" Gadget asked.

Her friends froze. "Actually, it was your idea," her husband reminded her gently.

"Really? Oh, shoot! I forgot that only half of the disk would be available for us, not its entire area. Well, it's too late for that now. Let's hope it won't fall off because of vibrations."

Of course, after these words her plan became even less inspiring than before. But, to everyone's surprise, it worked, and the disk stayed in place during the whole ascension. The Rangers estimated that during that time the camera looked at them at least three times, but no one came running, no alarms sounded, and they allowed themselves to hope a little that everything went well.

"You're crazy!" Smelly sprang at them before they had a chance to catch their breath. "You not only went into the restricted territory, you also took an artifact from there! Return it immediately!"

"Hey, easy there, you—" Dale flared up like a wildfire and would certainly shower the rat with a whirl of warmest greetings if it weren't for Chip's timely and effective intervention in the form of elbow in the side and unexpectedly polite speech. "Sure, George! We'll make everything right in a moment!" He took the mirror again, waited for the camera to turn away, and pushed the disk off the radius with a subtle punch.

"NO!" The rat jumped to the grate, watching the rainbow iridescence below in terror. "What have you done?! The Humans will see it there! You must return the disk where you took it, or the Humans will understand everything!"

"Not everything," the chipmunk in the bomber jacket objected. "Only that the case with a blank fell out of the rack for some reason, and the disk rolled out of it and ended up by the cooler."

The RIA officer grinned sardonically. "I really like this 'for some reason' of yours! You think the Humans will just leave it at that? You're wrong! They'll start digging, crawling everywhere, checking everything, and in the end they'll find out that—"

"That there's no rational explanation for that, and no one will take an irrational one seriously. Me and my team have a very vast experience of working right under the nose of the Human police. Trust me, they'll rather attribute everything to aliens and ghosts than rodents who, as far as they know, can only eat and sleep. Agreed?"

Smelly didn't get it. "With what exactly?"

Instead of answering him, Chip gave him a tight pawshake. "That's what I'm talking about! Thanks for your patience and your assistance, we'd have never done it without you! And now, if you please, show us the way to the roof. Oh, and ask your colleagues to tell our friends to wait for us there. Can you do it?"

The rat, not used for such a rush, nodded perplexedly and gave all needed instructions into his collar. Then he recollected himself and repeated his question. "So will you put the disk back into place or what?"

"Or what! You can go down there yourself if you like!" Dale answered.

Chip elbowed him again and said the same, only in a much more diplomatic way. "If it concerns you so much, organize a round-the-clock observation of Humans and you'll be aware of everything they plan. I'm sure it's a simple task for an organization like the RIA!"

Smelly didn't argue with that and led the Rangers back to the surface, issuing short orders into his radio about watching Pryce's office. Judging by a stomping of feet coming from adjacent pathways, George commanded a whole army of agents, and it was probably just a small fraction of the RIA members. Horde of people, little effect… Chip thought and shuddered as if touching a slater. Being a natural-born organizer, it was physically painful for him to see such rodent resources going to waste.

In contrast to the intelligence rats, Chip's team showed not only coordination but also determination to win their noble cause. When Chip, Dale and Gadget reached the roof of the western wing's northern tower, the fully equipped Ranger Wing full of their anxious friends was waiting for them.

"It took you quite some time!" Monterey Jack observed with reproof. "I started wondering if I should cut another wing of our friends' down there!"

"That would be too much," Chip said as he gently helped his wife to climb aboard. "They would surely suspect something. By the way, concerning suspicions—"

"Don't worry, I smashed a bottle nearby," Foxglove informed him, taking a short break from more than close contact with her chosen one. "You should have heard what words they used to call it…"

"Great move!" The chipmunk turned to Smelly who was seeing them off. "See, George? We've got everything under control when dealing with Humans!"

"I see, I'm not blind!" The officer responded angrily. He regained his strength, authority and haughtiness in the presence of his colleagues guarding the ventilation entrance. He also was a little jealous.

"Don't be nervous, Smell!" Dale shouted to him. "Be more attentive to the people, and they will reach out for you! In short, don't sleep, or you'll freeze! Ciao!"

The rat puffed up for a loud and fitting reply, but Gadget thought that it would end in a shoot-out and powered up the engines, not just lifting but skyrocketing the aircraft.

"Why were you so rough with him?" Tammy asked when the blonde inventor slightly decreased the engines' power and the Rangers could hear each other again. "While you were away, I had a chat with those RIA agents, and they're pretty nice tribe—"

"I wouldn't touch those tribal guys with a hobby-horse," Dale grumbled, criticizing the RIA agents' for their blinkered vision and taboo adherence with exceptional laconism. So unexpected, in fact, that his friends didn't quite get what he really meant, but still laughed since the phrase was unexpected and truly amusing.

"Anything from Zipper?" Chip inquired signaling that it was business time again.

"Yep," Monterey Jack reported. "While the agents were replacing their tire, we exchanged a couple of words."

"What did he find out?"

"Said it's all very complicated and he'll tell everything later. That's it."

"What?! You let him go just like that?!" Chip grew infuriated.

Monterey Jack didn't have to borrow emotions, too. "You should have seen him! He was ashen-faced and his wings barely moved! He spent the whole day in the dark and fug, listening to things that make the normal creatures chill to their bones and their hair stand on its edges! I'd like to see you after such an ordeal!"

"You were obliged to interrogate him!"

Monty's face grew dark. "Interrogate?! As for me, I never interrogate friends and I never intend to!"

"Me too!" Dale joined him. "It's wrong! Very, very wrong!"

"He's right, dear! It's not good!" Gadget responded instantly. Chip knew why they said so, but now it wasn't a good time to insist. "Sorry, I got carried away. I used the wrong word. I meant 'interview'. Monty—"

The Aussie crossed his hands and looked away, still boiling with anger. "You need it, you do it! He'll join us in the Secret Service HQ, you'll have all the time in the world for your interviews!"

"Secret Service HQ? They're heading there now? That's great!" Chip said happily to abate the conflict at least a little. "That changes everything! Why didn't you say that from the start?"

"You didn't interview us," Monterey Jack said with stress.

Chip pretended not to notice his sarcasm. "Right you are… By the way, why aren't you interviewing us? We saw and found out so much—"

"Yes, yes! Tell us! Tell us everything!" Tammy showed great interest.

But Chip, having regained the control over the situation, wasn't going to satisfy her so fast. "Be patient! It's a long story which must be told in detail and listened to with great attention—"

"I can land the plane if you want!" Gadget suggested. "We'll also save some battery charge!"

"Good thinking! I think that minivan will do just fine—"

Monterey Jack grew pale. "NO! Not that one! It carries the seal of evil!"

"Really?!" Dale stood on his seat to have a better view on this 'hell on wheels' and was very disappointed to see neither a pentagram on the roof nor the Number of the Beast on the license plate of a seven-seat Dodge Grand Caravan driving slightly ahead of them. "And where's this seal of yours?!"

"It's over there! Can't you see it?!"

Dale didn't answer, but his gestures, addressed at no one in particular, clearly hinted that the over-superstitious Aussie should have a forced medical treatment.

Unexpectedly, Chip backed Monterey Jack up. "Don't know about you guys, but I don't like that minivan, too. I have a hunch that it will either make a wrong turn, or break down in the most inopportune moment… We should look for something taller and more reliable. Like, a container truck, or a bus… Any objections against the bus, Monty?"

"Do as you please," the strongmouse muttered. He didn't understand everything Dale was implying, but got the general idea easily, and thought that the second chipmunk's support was just a fawning to redeem himself in his and Zipper's eyes, for Chip, for one, had never been a superstitious one…

Monterey Jack was right, but only partially. Indeed, Chip's words were carefully calculated, though aimed not at toadying to Monterey, but to have an excuse to raise this topic later, which interested him much more than he showed. Presently Chip joined the search for a suitable landing platform, which they found in the form of a trailer dragged along by a powerful tow truck.

Its wide and tall body was a perfect place to give propellers some rest and dish on the RIA agents while keeping the Secret Service's Chevrolet in sight, its driver and passenger having their own share of topics to discuss. "So you don't think they did it?"

"No, Johnny, I don't. It's out of their scale. Then again, they had too little time to arrange it and make it after we left."

"Maybe they did back when we came?" Blunt offered. Being the car owner, he was the one to suffer all the hardships of the tire replacement and was eager to unmask the culprits.

Trevor understood him perfectly, but could offer no help. "What for? They had no reasons back then."

"That's true. You know, another couple of your tricks, and they would have had to dispose of our dead bodies!"

Branson laughed. "See! And you didn't want to leave!"

"But it's a nice place! I think we should build something like that for ourselves, where no boss can call us."

"That's a real plus," Trevor said sincerely. Almost immediately after switching back their phones they had providently left in the car in order not to give them up at the CIA HQ entrance risking getting them back slightly 'upgraded', they received fourteen messages in total about missed calls from the Gyllenhaal's number. "But as for me, I prefer leaving the battlefield when I see fit."

"But we learned little in the end."

"They, too, which is important."

"Yes, I noticed you didn't mention the Godfather. I think you should have, by the way. Their phonetic library is way richer than ours."

"Wow!" Branson was amazed. "So you don't think it was the CIA who called Jefferson?"

"I know you don't think so, that's why I'm surprised."

"The Godfather being part of the Black Table doesn't mean he has no connections to the CIA. One doesn't contradict the other, but facilitates it."

"Another reason to let them hear the recording. If it's some high-ranked Agency member, Pryce would have surely recognized his voice!"

"Or he would pretend to have never heard it before."

"Oh…" John lifted his eyebrows. "So Pryce is the Black Table member, too?"

"I'll put it this way for now: it's possible."

"Listen, Trev, I enjoy paranoid thrillers about global conspiracies and shadow governments, too, but that's too much!"

"The protagonists of paranoid thrillers say so, too. Remember what usually happens afterwards?"

Blunt knew his friend was joking, but couldn't help it and glanced in the rear-view mirror to make sure there were no motorcycle riders with anti-tank missile launchers on their shoulders. "Don't whip it up, Trev! By the way, my doctor forbade me to worry!"

"And being an obedient patient, you immediately resigned and moved to the country to enjoy finishing."

"Yeah! Just drop you by the office and go to the lakes!"

"The lakes?" Trevor sucked his teeth. "It's good there now…"

"As if you've been there."

"No," Trevor acknowledged. "But I try to hope for the best. Although I insistently advise you to throw the flash drive away."

"Throw away?" His friend asked in surprise.

"Or give it to your mother-in-law, whatever you consider worse. But never use it yourself. It's been in the CIA smart table, after all."

John looked at his lapel pocket so nervously as if there was a time bomb inside it. Intuitively he understood that it was improbable, but his experience of working in Presidential security told him that even such a small object can be deadly, doubly so if it spent some time in the hands of the CIA… "Thanks for the advice. I'll dispose of it when we arrive. Although it's a real pity…"

"You're lucky! The CIA men have to replace the whole smart table!"

"Come again?"

"Well, they can think we had installed some mean virus there."

"We what? Wait! That's why you insisted I should bring a flash drive, didn't you?"

"True story," Trevor shrugged, admitting his guilt. "Although I didn't count to hit the table, I expected something like a notebook."

"So maybe we shouldn't destroy it? It's a veteran now."

"What?! That's the other reason to do it! I think you should hit it with a sledgehammer with all your strength, then gather all the pieces and pour acid on them. And keep it at gunpoint all the time in case it leaps on you…"

"Come on!" Blunt poked his fist in the direction of his laughing friend's face. Branson easily evaded it, but not stopped laughing. On the contrary, he began to graphically demonstrate the proposed procedure in the language of gestures, grimaces, and exclamations in response to the flash drive pieces melting and molding into the combat modification autonomously seeking the needed socket and attempting to plug into everything it can find. It was so obnoxiously funny when performed by a bulky fifty-year-old man that Blunt managed to keep the car in their lane owing solely to the skills obtained during the Secret Service special driving training.

Shortly before that George Washington Memorial Parkway they had been using since leaving Langley came close to the shore of Potomac, along which it ran south to Alexandria, Virginia. Special agents didn't need to go there, so some thousand feet away from Arlington National Cemetery they turned onto Theodore Roosevelt bridge over the country's main river. The trailer chosen by the Rescue Rangers kept driving towards Reagan National Airport, so the friends had to follow the Chevrolet by air for the remainder of the way. They didn't have to fly too far, though, since it was less than a mile to an unshowy cream seven-storied building on New York NW avenue in the block next to the White House where Presidential Protection Division HQ was located.

"Here we go. Now all the unanswered calls will pay off in spades for us," Blunt said in such a sullen voice as if Gyllenhaal was already waiting for them riding a giant human-like combat robot.

But reality was much less scarier, and instead of their boss they were met at the elevator by their subordinate. "Mister Blunt, sir!" The young agent was ruddy with overpressure. "We've searched high and low for you! Assdir's been riding hard on everyone! Where have you been?!"

"Drinking coffee," Trevor responded sharply. "Where's this Assdir of yours now?"

Collecting his wits and realizing who he was talking to and how he had just called his boss, the young man became covered with sweat and red blots. "Uhm… This… SpAginCh, I mean, Special Agent in Charge Gyllenhaal went to the explosion site to prepare for the President's address. He asked to tell you, Mister Blunt, sir, to go there, too. You're a member of his team or something like that…" The agent wisely fell silent when John grimaced.

"I see, thank you. Is that all?"

"It is, sir. Mister Deputy Director, if you excuse me—"

"Get back to work," Trevor cut him short.

"I'm on it!" The young man shouted with obedient happiness and almost ran away. His older colleagues, keeping deadpans, went on, and allowed themselves to laugh only in Trevor's office.

"Interesting," John uttered in-between two fits of laughter. "Does Gyllenhaal know how the low-ranks call him?"

"He should. I doubt he's the only Assistant Director to be called like that," Branson suggested opening the wardrobe and taking his coat off.

Blunt thought he saw something like a fly leaving it, but he attributed it to black dots dancing in his eyes. "Probably not. But we shouldn't tell him that, what do you think?"

"I think the less your boss knows, the better you sleep. By the way, had your boys dealt with the journalists already? I'd like to see the results."

"Then you'll have to go after them yourself. The ruins are waiting for me, you heard it."

"No ruins! You're in my group and you work on the Blather case only!"

"I understand and I'd be glad to, but Gyllenhaal—"

"I'll speak to him. Get the report and fear nothing."

"As you say, boss!" Blunt waved his palm in mock salute and left. While he was away Trevor had time to look through papers for signing and his mail, and the Rangers coming to Zipper's call established a post of visual and electronic surveillance. The windows here weren't as tightly secured as at the CIA owing to location in the center of Washington amidst the high-security facilities belonging to various federal bodies. Nevertheless, all the windows were polished in a specific way and reflected the rays in every angle but the one they fell, making the ray-based listening devices fundamentally useless. The only way was to get close to the glass, but no Human could do that. The rodents could, though, and the window bay was deep enough to sit comfortably. Still, they were too far to see what exactly Branson was reading, and Zipper had to fly from the window to the ceiling above the desk and back to keep his friends more or less in the know. When John returned, the fly was rapping his friends the contents of another advertisement Trevor rejected.

"So?" Branson asked, seeing his friend come empty-handed.

"They're wrapping up."

"Are they? If I remember correctly, they should have finished half an hour ago."

"And if I remember correctly, you wanted it to be done by 7 PM, so they still got time."

Branson wasn't amused. "Johnny, it's childish."

"I know, Trev. They swear everything will be ready in a few minutes."

"Okay. If they do it, I'll pretend my watch runs behind. But only this one time. Understood?"

"Crystal clear. But I got news from Parr. He spoke to the WBC bosses—"

"That will wait," Branson poked his stylus into the smartphone screen and the nearest printer expelled a sheet of paper. "This is the list of those who should be in MRB in twenty minutes."

The Rescue Rangers hadn't heard this acronym before, but it was obviously familiar to Blunt. "In twenty minutes? But Thornton is there—"

"Perfect, he's on the list, too! Only three remain. Five minutes per person plus four in reserve, and you doubt you'll make it?"

John rolled his eyes. "I already wish I had gone to Gyllenhaal."

"You'll have a much merrier time here, you'll see. Okay, go. I'll meet you there in eighteen minutes. Oh, and bring that eponymous recording with you!"

Blunt left, muttering something not very pleasant about his friend loading him with all the service hardships. But the Rangers knew that Branson spent minutes left before leaving to the mysterious MRB working hard himself.

"He's jotting a speech there or what?" Dale wondered.

"Rather, he's making a presentation," Foxglove objected.

"No, presentations are for children and slowcoaches."

"What slowcoaches are you talking about? They have developed entire industrial standards for that!"

"Exactly! All carbon copies! No imagination, no fantasy, no individuality! Any text editor is freedom, inspiration, improvisation! And presentation? Only templates…"

"So what? Any template can be—"

"Enough, friends!" Chip called order. "Most probably, he's doing both. Let's think about what this MRB is and where it's located."

He shouldn't have said that… His friends exerted themselves and produced a whole bunch of expansions, each is finer than the last, and then began to vehemently defend their variants. They were lucky Branson was too busy to pay attention to squeaking behind the window. With every passing minute the rodents looked in his direction less and less often, for while he was doing his non-enthralling work, there was basically nothing to look at. And if it weren't for Zipper's vigilance, they would surely miss the moment when the agent received a very important letter. So important that he almost dropped his phone and it took him two attempts to dial the needed number.

"Hello! Mark? It's Branson. …Yes, I got the report, that's why I'm calling. Is this correct? Can it be a mistake? …What did you check? …Oh, you checked it three times, I see. Well, if you say so… …Yes-yes, in two minutes. See you there!" Trevor hung up, transferred the needed part of the report to the prepared presentation slide, muttered to himself 'At least I foresaw it…' and went to the door. Zipper, who had previously tried hard to fly as quietly as possible, flung his cautiousness aside and darted after him. His friends grabbed their listening and watching devices, jumped into their plane and began discussing what they should do next.

Monterey Jack, inclined towards travel, suggested they should fly around this and adjacent blocks looking for anything which can be shortened as MRB. But Chip was confident he had studied Branson well, and objected that since the agent was going to get there in two minutes, this place must be somewhere inside the building. Dismissing Dale's idea of Megasecret Radioactive Bunker, Chip told Gadget to fly over the building and hover over its courtyard. His intuition told him the mysterious MRB was hiding behind the curtains of the windows facing it. And he was proven right by Foxglove catching Zipper's signal rapping. After lagging behind for some time, the team was back in action again.

Turned out, the ominous acronym MRB was used to designate a harmless Meeting Room B. It was a standard auditorium with a pulpit, a screen and rows of chairs, the first of which was occupied with men wearing identical white shirts and dark ties. If theaters begin with a cloakroom, federal agencies begin with a dress-code.

"Let's start!" Trevor announced as soon as his wristwatch counted the last second. "So, gentlemen, from this moment you are part of the group directly responsible to me and investigating the attempt on Stan Blather's life. Yes, he's alive and is currently under our protection along with his family. I won't delve into the details of the murder attempt, our Newark office is dealing with that. Our task is to deal with its consequences. Such as…"

Making sure his phone and media-projector became friends, the agent launched his presentation, and two outline portraits appeared on the screen behind him.

"Such kind and open faces!" Blunt commented.

"You are right as always, Johnny. These are the composite portraits of Mister Blather's would-be killers composed based on his descriptions. They are for you, Mark. Please, try to work faster this time."

Senior operation analysis specialist Mark Rosewater, the author of the delayed report, nodded silently.

"Don't feel bad, that's not all," Branson switched to the next slide with the portraits of the 'CIA agents'. "These two young lads posing as the CIA agents visited the widow of Leroy Jackson who perished in the explosion of the NCS building. They took the photo of her nephew, Samuel Jackson, which later that day ended up on the table of Tobias Jefferson, the Blather's boss, who was later murdered. I doubt it's just a coincidence."

"I knew the CIA is behind this!" William Thornton exclaimed. Suffering from obesity and visually resembling a penguin, he was one of the leading experts on weapons and tactics of their usage. But he was still a romantic of a groundwork in his heart, and had absolutely no objections about an unceremonious interruption of his seminar on pat-down of suspicious subjects.

"Don't jump to conclusions, Bill. There are grounded reasons to think that these two had no connection to the CIA at all. That is, they can be its employees, but they act not on the CIA heads' orders, but on orders from the heads of the Black Table."

"And what are these grounded reasons?" Blunt asked from the far end of the row. The others wanted to know it, too, but only he was entitled to ask the question being Branson's friend and the closest to him in terms of rank.

"The fact that Blather's killers posed as the Secret Service agents. I think they wanted to make the two agencies fight one another. 'Divide and conquer'. Classic."

"Yes, but if Blather died, nobody would know that!" Rosewater observed a bit more emphatically than needed.

"Just yesterday I would have agreed with you, Mark. But in the morning our friends from Newark found the car of the abductors. They found fake Secret Service IDs and chloroform used to put Blather to sleep there. But that's not what's really important. The important thing is, it was found in the parking lot in front of the Hudson County Presecutors' Office."

This audience needed no additional explanations. "So they wanted to make him a victim of the Secret Service," Gregory Chang, sitting between Thornton and Blunt, expressed the general opinion. An American of the Japanese origin, he led the anti-cybercrime task group.

"You almost nailed it. He was going to become the victim of the political regime as a whole."

Blunt, who had already heard the idea, and the Rescue Rangers who had suggested it, met this idea calmly. The others made an uproar. "How's that? What regime? Are you talking about Logan, sir?"

"Yes," Branson acknowledged. "First of all President Logan. I'll explain why. First, the Secret Service is primarily associated with the President. Second, the CIA, which the first couple of suspects used as their cover, is accountable to the Director of National Intelligence, personally appointed by the President. Third, look at the screen."

He switched to the next slide, the half of which was occupied by a grayscale photo of a young dark-haired native of Caucasus.

"This is Ukrainian journalist Georgiy Gangidze, abducted and murdered in 2000, supposedly on orders of the then-President of Ukraine. At least, that's what the publicized audio recordings of the conversations in his working cabinet suggest. The authenticity of the recordings is still questioned, but that's beside the point. Point is, that their publication caused a huge political scandal which almost ended in the resignation of the Ukrainian President…"

The Secret Service agents were listening with their mouths agape. In contrast, the Rescue Rangers were so happy they could barely sit.

"…Presently there are no indications that the Black Table was behind the Ukrainian events. But there's no doubt they're trying to repeat that scenario here, in this country. The fact the culprits didn't drive Blather's body into a wild but threw him from the busy bridge in front of the other drivers and surveillance cameras, proves they wanted to turn his death into a show. Moreover, when they threw him into the river, he wasn't dead, just put to sleep with chloroform, so they wanted to shock the public with not a mere fact of the killing, but with the cruelty of it. Now you understand who we are dealing with?"

Thornton sighed heavily. "What a predicament…"

"It's always like that. The CIA fails, and we have to mop up," Chang complained.

Branson expected such a reaction and seized upon it. "That's the point! The information leak was arranged by the Black Table!"

"Why are you so sure?" Blunt asked.

"That's why," Trevor opened the next slide. There were no photos, but the text was eloquent enough. "Thanks to Mark and his team we now know for sure that the Blather story wasn't a random concourse of circumstances but a carefully thought-out operation. He wasn't the first whom so-called 'David' contacted."

"David?" Thornton asked.

"Of course, it's not his real name. He deliberately chose it to make his traffic light tricks even more impressive…" Sensing that his audience started getting confused by references to the events they had no idea of, Branson gave them a short recap of everything he had heard from Stan, then got back to the main topic. "Now let's talk about the key point, which is the tragic fat of Claude Benjamin, the reporter from DC's Channel Seven. His body was found earlier this month in Barcroft Park, Arlington. The car he was driving when he left his office that day was never found. The police concluded he became the victim of mugging, but after the incident with Blather it's absolutely clear his death wasn't accidental. He was the first in the alphabetic list of the reporters accredited to the Peace Summit."

"And who was—" Thornton wanted to ask, but fell silent upon realizing it. "Stan Blather was the second, wasn't he?"

"He was," Rosewater confirmed. "Everything fits."

"Not everything!" Chang objected. "Why did they kill him? He rejected their materials? Such materials? It's preposterous!"

"That's the point. He didn't reject them." Branson explained. "I think he took the materials. But then he didn't pass the 'police' test."

"What do you mean by 'police'?"

"Well, considering where Benjamin's body was found, in his case it was, most probably, 'park rangers', but the principle stays the same. 'David' somehow got into the car of the reporter on his way home and forced him to drive into the dark and empty park. There he told him he was a member of some secret patriotic organization, gave him the disk with the camera recording and left. After some time Benjamin, who hasn't yet recovered from the meeting, is found by two 'service men' who start inquiring what he is doing there and whether he needs help and law protection. Apparently, Benjamin didn't have a strong enough stomach and told them everything about his encounter with a stranger. The result is known. It would have been the same with Blather, except his body would have been found in New York's Central Park."

"Looks like he's a tough guy!" Thornton smiled. "He doesn't fall for provocations, doesn't drown in the water… Appearance is deceiving!"

"Right you are! Fortunately, he's indeed the man you just described, that's why we have the portraits of these two handsome gentlemen…"

The third pair of portraits appeared on the screen, making everyone feel a fir of deja vu.

"Wait!" Blunt shouted. "That's— That's those CIA men!"

"Looks that way," his friend agreed and opened the next slide with both sets of portraits, from Blather and Marjorie Jackson, gathered on it. "As you can see, it's obviously the same people, although in completely different images and make-up variants. Conclusion: we're dealing with a numerous and well-organized group that will stop nothing, including murders, to reach their goals."

"And you say it's not the CIA!" Blunt jested.

His joke was hugely successful, and even Branson couldn't help but smile. "Yes. It may seem paradoxical, but I think it's not the CIA. You know, why? By contradiction. They try too hard to make us believe the CIA's behind it. They wouldn't incriminate themselves so openly."

"Maybe that's the plan?" Rosewater offered. "I mean, they expect everybody to think so and—"

"That's the problem, Mark. Only a few people will think so. Take Ukraine. There were many articles and speeches that the President was the last man who would benefit from Gangidze's death, but it didn't prevent his previously high rating to plummet to some meager nine to ten per cent. In our country the President with such a rating and with such serious accusations against him has no other option but to resign. It's the same for secretaries, congressmen, and law enforcement agencies directors, so they would never do something like that. That's the strong point of our system, but at the same time it's a weakness which some external, previously unknown force, like the Black Table, can exploit."

Everybody was touched by his words, except thick-skinned Thornton. "Well, they should do much better than that! One exposing report and fake IDs of our agents are not enough. After 9/11 there were many materials about the involvement of the President, the CIA, even about some Freemason-Zionist conspiracy! And what did they achieve? We're still standing!"

"I don't want to disappoint you, Bill, but in 2001 the President of Ukraine kept his position, too. But it didn't really help him in his both interior and international affairs, and his supposed successor lost the following elections badly. So the consequences can manifest themselves not only here and now, but can haunt our descendants, too. That's the first point. And here's the second." With magician's grace, Trevor took out portable speakers from the drawer and gestured to Blunt to join him at the table. Blunt connected the previously configured voice recorder to the speakers and turned the volume to the maximum so that no one could miss a word.

"Good day, Mister Jefferson, it's me again."

"And still no name?"

"That's inconvenient, I agree, but believe me, it's better for everyone this way…"

"Now that's what I call a mighty serve!" Monterey Jack exhaled, wiping sweat off his forehead. Even he, having seen many things and knowing of the recording contents from Chip's words, developed a fever while listening to it, and the Humans who heard it for the first time felt even worse.

"That's horrible," Chang stated.

Rosewater, being more experienced, was even less optimistic. "If served right, which is easy, Watergate will look like a quarrel of two farmers in a bar."

"As far as I know, the identity of the Godfather is still unknown," Branson pointedly looked at Eugene Flowers, chief criminalist, who had been silent up to now.

The expert with thirty years of experience under his belt, looking like a horned owl owing to his deep-set eyes behind bifocal lenses, held his superior's stare, but could boast no other achievements. "We're working on it. But our phonetic library is too specialized. Sample exchange with neighbors could help, but I need Gyllenhaal's sanction for that. Or yours. Preferably both."

"Work with our base for now."

"It would be better and faster—"

"I know. But we'll try to make do on our own for a time being. Involving outsiders is always risky, and if this recording is leaked, the consequences will be dire, I'm sure you understand."

"And I'm sure you don't!" Flowers had worked in Secret Service longer than Branson, survived five Directors and eight Deputy Directors, and said whatever and however he considered needed. "You know what samples are? They aren't recordings! And not even fragments of recordings! It's the voice signature built based on recordings, its mathematical model. Decrements, variations, frequency ranges… That's what is stored in all repos, and that's what they exchange! So don't you worry, nobody will know about the contents of your precious recording!"

"Do you guarantee it?" Branson asked. His reaction could be much tougher, but it wasn't his style to punish his subordinates for being right.

"Sure!" Flowers felt offended. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't guarantee it!"

"Then you have my sanction. As for Gyllenhaal's… consider you have it, too. Do everything you need, but find this man. Currently he's our only lead to the Black Table."

Blunt raised his hand. "Wait a second. Suppose I agree with you on the pseudo-cops. But why are you so sure the Godfather is not from the CIA?"

In public, Trevor couldn't answer his friend's question in the same manner as before, so he said only one word. "Premonition. Alright, that's all I wanted to tell you about the circumstances of this case and our work. Thus, since you don't have any questions, let's switch from theory to practice. We'll start with you, Mark. Your task is—" Branson wanted to turn the page of the opened document, but his phone started moving about the table with a low buzzing. Trevor knew who was calling, so he neither picked up nor rejected the call, and began jabbing the moving device with a light-pen like aboriginal fishermen trying to catch fish with their spears. "So, your task is to go to John — he's my first assistant, by the way, if you hadn't guessed already — and get materials from New York and Newark. He knows what I'm talking about, and you know what to do with them. Mister Flowers, prepare your samples. Gregory, monitor the internet, first of all sites of news agencies, blogs of popular network commentators, and all file- and video-sharing services. The next false flag operation or the dirt throwing can be underway already, and we must know the source. And monitor the situation in general, too. Bill, I need you in New Jersey."

"The shirts went out of fashion already?" The fat man giggled, but met the solid wall of imperception and changed the subject. "Where exactly?"

"In Maplewood. Blather has a house there. Had. I want you to examine the smoldering ruins and tell me who and why fired guns there and what guns exactly."

"Was there gunfire? Gunfire in Blather's house? Who did that?"

"Same people who planted the bugs there."

"There were bugs there, too?!"

"Of course. The Black Table had to control their herald somehow."

"Or the CIA had to watch the reporter poking his nose into wrong places," Blunt seized the opportunity to add.

"Thornton will find this out!" Trevor evaded argument swiftly.

The weapon expert sighed deeply. "I will, what else can I do?"

"Exactly. Come to my office in the morning, I'll give you the coordinates of our guys and the local police detective. He's a good specialist, you'll befriend him quickly. But don't tell him your pizza joke, he won't appraise it."

"He's Italian?"

"No, he's Lieutenant. Okay, I think I told everyone everything… Oh, please, share everything you saw and heard in this room only with those you trust like yourselves! Especially Blather's 'death' and the contents of the recording! Is that clear?"

"Clear, clear, perfectly clear…"

"Well, you've got the materials and the tasks. I'll be here tomorrow at this time waiting for your preliminary reports. You're free to go. No, Johnny, you stay here."

"Now-now! Something's afoot here!" Dale felt himself a true infiltrator. eavesdropping on the secret talks between the head of the hostile state and his entrusted aide, and Foxglove had to try hard to keep him from pressing his face to the glass. In the meantime, Chip was closely watching the leaving agents, checking whether anyone was hurrying to get the information to his associates from the Black Table, or, by contrast, deliberately walking slowly to catch the start of conversation between Branson and Blunt. He saw nobody behaving like that, but, of course, it meant nothing…

"Gyllenhaal?" Blunt pointed at the phone moving about again.

"Who else? Misses me so he'll rub a hole in the table soon. Apparently, he's unoccupied now, maybe even returned here…"

"There are at least five exits from the building. I can distract the guards if you want…"

Trevor laughed. "Thanks, but that's not what I meant. I was going to visit him anyways, just wanted to talk to you alone. In short, be very careful."

"I'm always careful, it's my job." Despite a casual tone, Blunt was calm only on the outside.

"Now be twice, thrice as careful. I have reasons to believe the Black Table has a mole inside the Secret Service."

"Another prophetic dream?"

"Worse. Remember the list of the journalists?"

"Yes, you were right about that, I acknowledge it, congratulations."

The deputy head of the presidential security smiled sadly. "No congratulations are needed, Johnny, it's actually very, very sad. If the Black Table followed our list, then it has the copy."

"Oh, come on, Trev! It's not that big a secret! You can go to Google and—"

"You can't google it up. I tried."

"Well, surely there are means—"

"There are. And the most reliable one is to infiltrate your man here."

"Alright," Blunt gave up. "I'll check the dossiers of all interns and freshmen…"

"Interns and freshmen are at the end of my list of suspects."

The Rescue Rangers leant forward as one. John massaged his nagging temples. "Wait, stop… You mean the Black Table had infiltrated their spy here long ago?"

"If you read the material on Ukraine, you must remember who provided those scandalous cassettes."

"I remember, but I doubt they are so dumb as to repeat everything to the letter."

"Why repair what's not broken?" Trevor countered. "By the way, it's simpler. and simplicity is a terrible force!"

"But they need their devoted agent in a high enough place for that!"

"You think it's improbable? If they infiltrated the CIA, and they couldn't find out about the MAP otherwise, they could do the same here as well."

Blunt shook his head. "I don't know, Trev. Your words have logic, but… What's your plan?"

"As for me, I plan to observe and analyze. And be careful, surely. And drop by Gyllenhaal's office, for he must be restless with anxiety now. Chin up, we'll get through!" Branson slapped his old friend's shoulder and dialed his boss' parlor number. "Cindy? It's Trevor… …I know he was looking for me, that's why I'm calling. Is he in? …Available? …Good, I'll be there in five minutes…"