Same Day (November 29)
Puccini's restaurant
Alexandria
1828 local
Mercedes sipped at her drink nervously, waiting. Any minute now,
Mac's contact in the State Department should be arriving, hopefully
with some ideas how to resolve this mess.
She looked around the elegant restaurant, scanning the other
diners. This whole situation was making her downright paranoid; she'd
repeatedly checked her mirrors to make sure she wasn't being followed,
and now she was trying to find Russian spies in an Italian restaurant
in the middle of Washington, D.C. You're losing it, there, Rabb, she
admonished herself.
One had to admit, though, that the current situation wasn't
helping. After telling her story to Mac, the Marine had made a few
cryptic phone calls, then told Mercedes to be here at 1820...er, 6:20
PM to meet with her 'friend'. And that was all she knew, except to
ask for Lt. Cowen when she got here.
Mercedes sighed. When had her life become something out of
Mission: Impossible?
******
"Ah, Mr. Webb, how good to see you again," the Maitre d' greeted
effusively. "You have a reservation?"
"Actually, I'm here for a friend of mine who couldn't make it at
the last minute. Lt. Cowen."
"Ah, of course." The Maitre d' knew Clay; this wasn't the first
time he'd used the restaurant 'for business'. And the man was well
paid not to ask questions. "Your lady friend is already waiting. This
way."
Lady, hmmm? Clay was doing this purely as a favor to Mac. Her
mysterious request about a friend who needed some help from the State
Department had him mildly intrigued. Besides, he owed both Mac and
Harm at least a few favors, so he really couldn't refuse.
However, as he followed the Maitre d' around a corner to a
concealed booth, he was very surprised to see an elegantly attired
Mercedes Rabb sitting there, apparently lost in thought. The Maitre d'
gestured silently toward the table, confirming Clay's guess.
Well. Things were now officially interesting. Clay approached the
table hesitantly. "Miss Rabb?"
Mercedes jumped, startled. "Mr. Webb?" she half-gasped. This was
Mac's friend from State? Lieber Gott..... "Um... hello," she
managed to get out. "I wasn't expecting you," she added. Great, Rabb.
Real smooth.
"I could say the same," Clay returned dryly as he took a seat. "So
Mac tells me you have some sort of problem that warrants State's
attention?"
"Well, yes, but....uh....well, you see....I mean, that is to
say.... Oh, Schiesse," CD finally managed to get out, dropping her face
into her hands and shaking her head. "Look," she said, glancing up
again, "this was stupid. I never should have bothered either one of
you. I'll just try to handle things on my own," she added, moving to
leave.
"Hey, wait a minute! Mercedes!" Clay had to nearly jump the table
to catch Mercedes arm. "Stop. Sit down. I promised Mac I'd listen to
what her friend had to say, and I meant it." He gave her a wry grin.
"What've you got to lose?"
Mercedes paled. "More than you think," she whispered, frozen.
Her reaction alone convinced Clay he needed to hear what she had
to say. This woman had faced down a serial killer; he'd seen her do it
with his own eyes. Whatever was going on, it was big, and it was
important. "Then tell me," he said quietly. "I might be able to help
more than you think."
"I want to," she said, relaxing slightly. "But I don't know if I
can trust you. And this is too important to risk."
He didn't have an answer to that. Somehow, he knew that any
promise or declaration would ring false with her. Instead, he simply
let go of her arm, took a step back, and waited.
She studied him with wary eyes, then finally sank back down into
her seat. Clay did likewise. And then she proceeded repeat what she'd
told
Mac.
****
Clay listened attentively to her story, but once he'd realized what
Mercedes had found, his mind was already racing ahead. Granted, he
wanted to bring home Harm Sr., but there were other things at stake,
chief among them a deal near fruition that would get one Sgt. Sergei
Zhukov released from a Chechen prison camp. Still, since Sergei was
being held by Russia's enemies, this could still work in his favor.
But frankly, there was no way the Russian government would release
the remains of a US MIA. It would be an international relations
nightmare. So if they were going to do this, it would have to be
covert. Which meant that Mercedes Rabb, who was publicly involved,
could have nothing to do with it. Damn....sometimes he hated this
job.
With a start, he realized CD had finished her story and was waiting
for a response. With a sigh, Clay began telling her what he had to.
"I'm sorry, Mercedes, but you have to realize that there's no way
those remains can or will be returned to the US."
"What?!? Look, Mr. Webb--"
"Clay."
She took a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to calm down, and
started again. "Clay, listen to me. The Russians don't know whose
remains those are. I'm the only one who does, and I'm not about to
tell them," she stated, trying for an eminently practical tone. "Isn't
there some way you could help me? I don't know, maybe create a false
identity to match? Even if I don't conclusively give the remains an
identity, the Russians won't release them to me, even on scientific
grounds. *There has got to be a way*, dammit. This is *my* uncle--
Harm's *father*-- we're talking about."
God, he wanted to help her. The pain in her voice cut straight
through him. And he would recover the remains, come hell or high
water, but she couldn't know that. Opting for a blasé, slightly bored
tone of voice, he addressed her as if talking to a particularly slow
child. "Miss Rabb, the US government can take no official involvement
in an internal Russian affair, which this is. Furthermore, your idea
of a false identity would never work. There's nothing you can do."
"I see." Mercedes's voice was icy. "Well, I'm sorry to take up
your time, Herr Webb," she stated, a slight accent coloring her voice.
"Gute Nacht," she almost snapped, collecting her things and sharply
taking her leave.
Clay could only watch her go, sighing. If she was anything like
her cousin, which he was betting she was, she'd be on the first flight
to Moscow tomorrow morning. Damn. He'd better stop by the office and
put a flag on her passport. If she couldn't leave the country, she
couldn't stir up trouble in Russia.
Alone at the table, he sighed, rubbing his forehead. Why was it
when someone named Rabb was involved, he always ended up in pain?
******************
Dulles Airport
2356 local
Mercedes took one long last look around the largely deserted
terminal. She'd gotten lucky; there was a Lufthansa flight leaving at
1AM, bound for Moscow via Petrograd. In a little over 24 hours, she'd
be back in Yekaterinburg. She'd have to make up the rest as she went
along.
TBC....
Puccini's restaurant
Alexandria
1828 local
Mercedes sipped at her drink nervously, waiting. Any minute now,
Mac's contact in the State Department should be arriving, hopefully
with some ideas how to resolve this mess.
She looked around the elegant restaurant, scanning the other
diners. This whole situation was making her downright paranoid; she'd
repeatedly checked her mirrors to make sure she wasn't being followed,
and now she was trying to find Russian spies in an Italian restaurant
in the middle of Washington, D.C. You're losing it, there, Rabb, she
admonished herself.
One had to admit, though, that the current situation wasn't
helping. After telling her story to Mac, the Marine had made a few
cryptic phone calls, then told Mercedes to be here at 1820...er, 6:20
PM to meet with her 'friend'. And that was all she knew, except to
ask for Lt. Cowen when she got here.
Mercedes sighed. When had her life become something out of
Mission: Impossible?
******
"Ah, Mr. Webb, how good to see you again," the Maitre d' greeted
effusively. "You have a reservation?"
"Actually, I'm here for a friend of mine who couldn't make it at
the last minute. Lt. Cowen."
"Ah, of course." The Maitre d' knew Clay; this wasn't the first
time he'd used the restaurant 'for business'. And the man was well
paid not to ask questions. "Your lady friend is already waiting. This
way."
Lady, hmmm? Clay was doing this purely as a favor to Mac. Her
mysterious request about a friend who needed some help from the State
Department had him mildly intrigued. Besides, he owed both Mac and
Harm at least a few favors, so he really couldn't refuse.
However, as he followed the Maitre d' around a corner to a
concealed booth, he was very surprised to see an elegantly attired
Mercedes Rabb sitting there, apparently lost in thought. The Maitre d'
gestured silently toward the table, confirming Clay's guess.
Well. Things were now officially interesting. Clay approached the
table hesitantly. "Miss Rabb?"
Mercedes jumped, startled. "Mr. Webb?" she half-gasped. This was
Mac's friend from State? Lieber Gott..... "Um... hello," she
managed to get out. "I wasn't expecting you," she added. Great, Rabb.
Real smooth.
"I could say the same," Clay returned dryly as he took a seat. "So
Mac tells me you have some sort of problem that warrants State's
attention?"
"Well, yes, but....uh....well, you see....I mean, that is to
say.... Oh, Schiesse," CD finally managed to get out, dropping her face
into her hands and shaking her head. "Look," she said, glancing up
again, "this was stupid. I never should have bothered either one of
you. I'll just try to handle things on my own," she added, moving to
leave.
"Hey, wait a minute! Mercedes!" Clay had to nearly jump the table
to catch Mercedes arm. "Stop. Sit down. I promised Mac I'd listen to
what her friend had to say, and I meant it." He gave her a wry grin.
"What've you got to lose?"
Mercedes paled. "More than you think," she whispered, frozen.
Her reaction alone convinced Clay he needed to hear what she had
to say. This woman had faced down a serial killer; he'd seen her do it
with his own eyes. Whatever was going on, it was big, and it was
important. "Then tell me," he said quietly. "I might be able to help
more than you think."
"I want to," she said, relaxing slightly. "But I don't know if I
can trust you. And this is too important to risk."
He didn't have an answer to that. Somehow, he knew that any
promise or declaration would ring false with her. Instead, he simply
let go of her arm, took a step back, and waited.
She studied him with wary eyes, then finally sank back down into
her seat. Clay did likewise. And then she proceeded repeat what she'd
told
Mac.
****
Clay listened attentively to her story, but once he'd realized what
Mercedes had found, his mind was already racing ahead. Granted, he
wanted to bring home Harm Sr., but there were other things at stake,
chief among them a deal near fruition that would get one Sgt. Sergei
Zhukov released from a Chechen prison camp. Still, since Sergei was
being held by Russia's enemies, this could still work in his favor.
But frankly, there was no way the Russian government would release
the remains of a US MIA. It would be an international relations
nightmare. So if they were going to do this, it would have to be
covert. Which meant that Mercedes Rabb, who was publicly involved,
could have nothing to do with it. Damn....sometimes he hated this
job.
With a start, he realized CD had finished her story and was waiting
for a response. With a sigh, Clay began telling her what he had to.
"I'm sorry, Mercedes, but you have to realize that there's no way
those remains can or will be returned to the US."
"What?!? Look, Mr. Webb--"
"Clay."
She took a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to calm down, and
started again. "Clay, listen to me. The Russians don't know whose
remains those are. I'm the only one who does, and I'm not about to
tell them," she stated, trying for an eminently practical tone. "Isn't
there some way you could help me? I don't know, maybe create a false
identity to match? Even if I don't conclusively give the remains an
identity, the Russians won't release them to me, even on scientific
grounds. *There has got to be a way*, dammit. This is *my* uncle--
Harm's *father*-- we're talking about."
God, he wanted to help her. The pain in her voice cut straight
through him. And he would recover the remains, come hell or high
water, but she couldn't know that. Opting for a blasé, slightly bored
tone of voice, he addressed her as if talking to a particularly slow
child. "Miss Rabb, the US government can take no official involvement
in an internal Russian affair, which this is. Furthermore, your idea
of a false identity would never work. There's nothing you can do."
"I see." Mercedes's voice was icy. "Well, I'm sorry to take up
your time, Herr Webb," she stated, a slight accent coloring her voice.
"Gute Nacht," she almost snapped, collecting her things and sharply
taking her leave.
Clay could only watch her go, sighing. If she was anything like
her cousin, which he was betting she was, she'd be on the first flight
to Moscow tomorrow morning. Damn. He'd better stop by the office and
put a flag on her passport. If she couldn't leave the country, she
couldn't stir up trouble in Russia.
Alone at the table, he sighed, rubbing his forehead. Why was it
when someone named Rabb was involved, he always ended up in pain?
******************
Dulles Airport
2356 local
Mercedes took one long last look around the largely deserted
terminal. She'd gotten lucky; there was a Lufthansa flight leaving at
1AM, bound for Moscow via Petrograd. In a little over 24 hours, she'd
be back in Yekaterinburg. She'd have to make up the rest as she went
along.
TBC....