He heard footsteps approaching and could tell by the cadence and heaviness of the tread that Haazim was bringing his meal this evening. Haazim was his primary warden, occasionally replaced by Saabiq under no pattern that Lee could discern. It had been that way for three months - or maybe longer - he wasn't certain. He found it difficult to keep track of time, locked in a concrete room with no exposure to radio, a newspaper, or even daylight.

The footsteps stopped outside his door and he knew immediately from the scent that tonight's fare was lentil stew. Lentil-fucking-stew. It wasn't so much that he hated it, but he'd eaten it five out of the last seven days so just about anything else would be welcome. He was starting to dream about American food. Nothing fancy; hamburgers, fried chicken, or even a Philly cheesesteak would be great. Meals that involved meat, fat and salt without a lentil or a chickpea in sight. Hell, he was ready to trade the Corvette for one of Milo's chili dogs.

That is, he was if he still had the Corvette - which might not be the case. If Lee was unsure how long he'd been in the cell, he was even less certain how long he'd been gone from the States. He'd left in June of '88 for what he believed was a routine intelligence mission just outside the capitol of Zakir. That much he knew. After that, things got a little hazy. He'd entered an abandoned building to meet with a contact, expecting to be out again in fifteen minutes. And...boom! There had been a blinding flash and a huge noise…and he had woken up in a strange bed with an intravenous needle stuck in his arm.

Lee had tried to get out of the bed, but his limbs were heavy and uncooperative, and the best he'd been able to do was rise to a sitting position. Lifting the sheet, he'd looked at his body and was surprised to see how much weight he'd lost. He had to be down nearly thirty pounds. Clearly, he had been in that bed for a long time.

That scared him. That, and the fact that the room didn't look like an American hospital room…or any kind of hospital room, for that matter. There was no electronic equipment - no beeping heart monitor or oxygen sensor. There was the bed, a nearly-empty bag of fluid connected by a tube to the intravenous needle, and grey walls without a window. That was it. No chairs, no sink, no medical paraphernalia.

He'd tried again to rise, but his body still wasn't working. The door opened and a dark-haired, middle-aged woman walked in carrying a hospital bag filled with clear fluid. She'd nearly dropped the bag when she saw that he was awake and said something nervously in Farsi. His heart sank because he knew for certain then that he was not in the States. He put the chances that he was in the hands of a friendly organization at fifty-fifty. The odds that the Agency knew he was alive, after such a long period of time, were worse. Even Amanda, with her unflagging belief in him, might think he was dead. He was truly on his own.

Use your training, he'd told himself. Don't panic. Remain cooperative. Ascertain as much as you can about your situation. He'd lifted a hand in a conciliatory gesture and asked the woman where he was and what had happened to him. His Farsi wasn't great, but he managed to get from her that he'd been in a coma. He couldn't get her to say for how long, though, or reveal where he was. She seemed frightened and left the room as soon as she'd finished exchanging the full bag for the empty one.

After that, he never saw her again. Whatever care she'd been delivering was henceforth performed by a series of armed men who brought him food and gave him a rudimentary form of physical therapy that consisted of placing him on his feet until he could stand on his own. Once he could walk and feed himself, they'd brought him to the cell he was in now. Like his previous room, it had no window. They turned a light on and off in regular intervals which Lee assumed were meant to simulate night and day. He no access to radio, television or a newspaper, so he tried to keep his mind busy imagining ways to escape. He'd also begun an exercise routine that included pushups, crunches, and squats. It helped him put few pounds back on, although only a fraction of the weight he had lost. The boredom was overwhelming.

Haazim inserted the key into the lock with a click that sounded loud in the otherwise silent room. The door swung open and the man stepped in bearing a tray with the stew and a bottle of water. He set it on the floor a few feet away from Lee. As he was turning to go, Lee said aloud, "Hmmm. Lentil stew. My favorite." He couldn't help it. Sometimes he just needed to hear his own voice to make sure it still worked.

To his surprise, Haazim turned back. "Is good, yes? My mother makes it."

Lee lifted an eyebrow. He'd been trying for weeks to get Haazim to talk - to tell him anything about where he was or who was holding him. He'd tried Arabic, Farsi, and English, all to no avail. The man had been a brick wall, leaving the meals without saying word. Apparently, what Lee had needed to do was compliment Haazim's mother's cooking.

"Very good," he replied, wiping all traces of sarcasm out of his voice. "I don't think I've had any that is better."

Haazim smiled. "She is good cook, my mother. She will be pleased to hear you like her food."

Lee nodded. "Thank her for sharing it with me."

"She makes a very tasty manaquish," Haazim continued. "Maybe you like to try it?"

"I would love to try it."

Haazim's smile grew broader. "I will tell her. You should eat well now because where you are going, the food might not be so good."

Lee's heart sped up. It was the first hint he'd gotten that his captors had a plan for him - which Haazim appeared to know something about. He slid the tray with the stew closer and took an appreciative sniff. Keeping his voice casual, he said, "I'm going to be moved?"

Haazim shrugged. "You are going to leave. You are to be sent to the USSR. The KGB give money for you."

Lee stiffened. He was going to be sold to the KGB? "When?" he asked sharply.

Too sharply. Haazim suddenly looked nervous, as if he realized he was talking too much. "I know nothing about it," he said quickly. "My job is to make sure you eat and do not escape. The boss is taking care of the deal with KGB."

The boss. Who the hell was the boss? Try flattery, Lee told himself. Appeal to his ego.

"I thought you were the boss," he said in surprised voice. "You seem like you're in charge."

For a second Haazim straightened, and his chest puffed slightly. But then he caught himself. He shook his head and moved toward the door. "Eat," he said, gesturing at the tray on the floor. "I will bring you manaquish tomorrow."

And before Lee could ask another question, Haazim left, locking the door behind him.

That night, Lee dreamed of Amanda. He had dreamed of her often since he'd come out of the coma, but almost always in the context of something they had done in the past - sitting at their desks in Q Bureau or sharing a bottle of wine at his apartment. They were dreams formed from memories and he was aware of that, even as he dreamed them. But this time the dream felt real and present, as if she were in the room with him. She looked him in the eye and said, "What do you think, Lee? Am I completely crazy?"

He woke abruptly and said, "Amanda?"

Amanda drove toward her house, mentally checking off the tasks on her list as she navigated the streets of Arlington. Get Penny to hold the event with the undersecretary - check. Convince Billy and Francine that she wasn't planning any kind of personal crusade to get Lee back - check. Get Zhmed to agree to pose as a Russian buyer - check.

Well…sort of check on that last one.

Obtaining Zhmed's agreement to participate in her plan had been trickier than she'd anticipated. She'd located him just fine. Her assumptions had been correct; he'd confirmed over the phone that he was working for Prime Tech and his address was in Falls Church, less than ten miles from Arlington. When she'd gone to see him, he'd greeted her warmly and listened with empathy when she told him about Lee. But he'd frowned when Amanda had explained what she wanted him to do.

"You want me to pretend to be KGB?" he asked.

Amanda nodded. "Yes. I can't speak Russian, and I think the plan will work better if I have someone who can."

Zhmed shook his head. "But I am not full U.S. citizen yet. I am a defector, with green card."

Puzzled, Amanda frowned. "Yes," she agreed patiently. "But the Zakiri undersecretary doesn't need to know any of that. You just need to convince him that-"

"No!" Zhmed cut in sharply. "You do not understand. You are U.S. citizen. If there is problem, your government will help you. They will get you home. But I am in the U.S. on…" he paused, "on trial. I must prove myself good American. And I do not think traveling out of country pretending to be KGB is a good way to prove myself."

"But you're doing it to help an American agent."

"And who will swear to that, other than you?" Zhmed was studying her closely. "Do your bosses support your plan?"

As much as Amanda wanted to lie to him, she couldn't. "No," she replied.

"Then, if there is trouble," Zhmed continued gently, "I may not get back into America. You remember how hard it was to get me into defector program three years ago. I was almost sent back to Russia. I like you very much - you and Mr. Stetson. It is thanks to you that I am here. But I cannot risk it. And if we run into real KGB, then I am dead. I cannot do this."

Amanda pressed her lips together and lowered her head. She couldn't argue with what Zhmed was saying. If things went south, there was indeed a chance that the government wouldn't bail him out. Hell, there was a chance they wouldn't bail her out either. She was doing this on her own, without the backing of the Agency. But she had a good reason to risk it all. Zhmed didn't.

He cleared his throat. "If I may make suggestion, Mrs. King?" he said.

Amanda raised her head and nodded.

"Perhaps I can pretend to be KGB agent by telephone. They need to hear my voice. They don't need to see me."

She opened her mouth to disagree, but then paused to consider the idea. It could work, she decided. Zhmed could say that he had sent Amanda to Zakir to verify that the undersecretary really had an American agent in custody. She could be an American, working for a Russian. Of course, it would mean traveling to Zakir on her own, but then Zhmed wasn't going to be able to shoot or fight their way out of trouble if they got caught, certainly not the way Lee could. Getting out of there was going to be up to her and Lee, anyway.

She exhaled. "Okay then. I can work with that. Thank you, Zhmed."

He smiled.

Amanda had one more item left on her list, and that was getting the flight to Zakir. She'd deliberately left that until last to reduce the chances of the Agency discovering her travel plans and intercepting her before she could get on the plane. She was probably being paranoid, but then Lee had always said a good agent was a little bit paranoid.

She turned down her street and felt her heart miss a beat when she saw an unfamiliar car parked in front of the house. She put her own car in the driveway and jogged in through the kitchen door. Had the Agency found out? She thought she'd been careful. Maybe Zhmed had gotten cold feet and decided to contact Billy.

But when she got inside, she found Alan in the family room with her mother and Jamie. They were laughing, and her mother and Alan greeted her with smiles as if this were an ordinary Saturday. Jamie gave her a more knowing look, but he said nothing.

"There you are!" her mother exclaimed. "You left the house so early this morning, I didn't know where you were. But I told Alan you wouldn't forget about your lunch date."

Lunch date. Oh crap, she had made a lunch date with Alan last night after the concert. She'd been so busy assembling the pieces of her plan that she'd forgotten about it. The concert felt like it had occurred weeks ago, in a life that belonged to somebody else. Between then and now, her entire future had changed, thanks to a single call from Lee's Barnstorm contact.

Fortunately, Alan knew more about her professional life than her mother. She was going to be able to give him an explanation for cancelling. She didn't know what on earth she was going to say to her mother.

She walked to him and put a hand on his arm. "Alan, remember how we were talking about growing roses last night?"

His brow furrowed. "We were?"

"Yes. You know how you were telling me how I needed to see the Roseto in Rome some day because of all the varieties they have. I was hoping we could step outside and I could show you what I'm trying to do with my roses." She tilted her head very subtly toward her mother, praying he would understand that she wanted to get him alone.

And thank goodness, he did. He smiled. "Oh, of course, Amanda. How could I forget? I'd love to see your roses. Dotty, it was nice talking with you." And with a nod to her mother, he stood and walked with Amanda to the door.

Once out in the garden, she plunged right in. It was rude, she understood, but Lee was waiting on her, even if he didn't know it yet. "Alan, there's no easy way to say this, but-"

"You have to cancel lunch." He forestalled her.

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"I'm guessing it has something to do with your work at the Agency. That's why you didn't want to tell me in front of your mother and son."

She nodded. "Well, in front of my mother, anyway. Jamie knows what I do. We talked about it last night when…" She caught herself. "And that's not important right now. What's important is that there's an urgent issue at work and I'm going to be out of the country for a few days. I need to leave right away."

"Out of the country?" he repeated. "What on earth is this about, Amanda? I can see that you're very worried. This seems like it's about more than work. It seems personal."

The man was certainly perceptive, Amanda thought. He paid attention to clues. If her heart wasn't already taken, she might have fallen for him. But her heart was taken.

"You remember that I told you I lost someone I was close to?" she began. "Someone at the Agency?"

"Yes. You said he was killed on assignment."

She lifted her hands. "Well, it turns out that the rumors of his death may have been exaggerated. We have intelligence that says he's alive. I'm going to try to get him back."

Alan's face cycled through several emotions. She had essentially just told him that their relationship had changed - that he had no chance with her if her intelligence was accurate. She felt bad, but there was no time to sugarcoat it and he deserved to know the truth. More pragmatically, if she was freelancing in Zakir, it would be good to have someone other than Zhmed know what she was up to.

"You believe this intelligence?" Alan finally asked.

"There's too much at stake for me not to," she replied. "I have to look into it."

"And how are you planning to do that?"

Amanda outlined her plan for finding Lee, not glossing over anything. When she was finished, he said tersely, "So, you're doing this on your own? Without backup?"

She shrugged. "If I get into trouble, I'll call my boss. He won't leave me hanging."

"Maybe not. But he'll be half a world away."

"I know." She sighed. "The idea is to trick the undersecretary into turning Lee over, without getting into a fight. Once I have him, the princess's security team will keep us safe."

Alan shook his head. "I don't like this, Amanda. You're taking too many risks."

"I don't have a choice, Alan. My instincts tell me the Agency's approach is too slow, and I trust my instincts." When he didn't immediately reply, she added, "I'm sorry to burden you with this. I know it's not fair, but I wanted to be honest with you. And I also wanted you to know in case things don't go as expected."

"Which is a euphemism for saying in case you don't come back."

She shrugged again and said nothing. What else was there to say?

He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled resignedly. "When do you leave?"

"As soon as I can book a flight. Hopefully, in a few hours."

He looked up sharply. "You mean, you don't have a flight yet?"

She shook her head. "I left that until the last minute. I didn't want the Agency to find out and try to stop me."

He stared at her, his eyes widening. Then he started pacing.

"Alan?"

"Don't book your flight," he said abruptly. "Not yet."

"But-"

He held up a hand. "One of the advantages of working in the art and antiquities world is that you meet a lot of very wealthy people. I've got a friend here in DC with a private jet. I'd like to see if we can borrow it."

A private jet? Could he really do that? A private jet brought a number of advantages. It would be quicker. She wouldn't need to wait uselessly in airports to board planes or collect luggage. And she could carry her gun with her. She wasn't very good with her gun, but the Zakiri undersecretary wouldn't know that. It could come in handy.

But who in the world lent people a jet? A car maybe, if you were very good friends. But a jet?

"You really think your friend will let me borrow his jet?" She asked skeptically.

Alan smiled. "It can't hurt to ask. I did him a big favor a few years ago - restored some letters from Jefferson to Adams that he has in his personal collection." His smile faded. "But he won't be lending you the jet, Amanda. He'll be lending it to me. Which means I'm going with you."

"Alan-"

"You need someone to watch your back. I may not be an agent, but I have eyes and ears, and I notice things. And I can call your bosses if you get in trouble and can't call them yourself."

She stared at him and tried to line up her reasons for saying no. But in the end, the offer was too good to turn down.

She nodded. "Okay."