Chapter 5

Lee clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white as he glared at Dirk Fredericks. "I never said Amanda wasn't capable of making her own decisions," he growled, biting back the addendum that his opinion of those choices was immaterial. His wife's ability to make almost instant decisions -- and stick to them in the face of strenuous opposition -- was a trait he found both admirable and frustrating. "I said I didn't want her to get hurt."

"But if you were confident of her abilities . . . and if you believed her capable of evaluating an assignment and determining whether it was a good match for her own skills, why would you be expect her to be injured?"

On this question, at least, Lee felt he had the upper hand. "It's obvious you've never been a field agent," he said scornfully. "Anything can happen out there. The most mundane milk-run can turn dangerous, even fatal."

Fredericks rubbed his chin, making an exaggerated show of considering Lee's words. "Well, if every mission is hazardous, are you saying you objected to Mrs. King taking any assignments at all?"

Lee shifted uncomfortably. Once again, Fredericks had struck painfully close to the truth, at least the present truth. He had always felt a strong responsibility and protectiveness toward Amanda. But he also had to admit -- to himself, if to no one else -- that, for the first few years of their working relationship, he had been guilty of extending his own cocky delusion of invulnerability to her. That fantasy had been shattered four months ago. Ever since Amanda had recovered from the gunshot wound that had nearly taken her life, ever since her return to active duty at the Agency, Lee had been painfully cognizant of the fragility of a field agent's existence. "Amanda almost died four months ago," he said, his voice choking with emotion. "I guess I've been a little overprotective since then."

"Perfectly understandable, I'm sure," Fredericks said, his tone of forced compassion explained by the looks of distaste being directed at him by Hanson and Whiting. As though waiting for the heightened tension in the room to dissipate, he walked calmly to the prosecution table, picked up a clipboard, and turned a few pages, stopping several times to make notations with a red, felt-tipped pen. "Please excuse the interruption," he apologized smoothly as he returned to his previous position, "I find it necessary to make periodic notes to myself, to keep an accurate record of of my progress." Pausing, he raised a brow. "Would it be accurate to say that record-keeping is not your strong point, Scarecrow?"

The change of tactics temporarily disoriented Lee. A major admission had been forced from him, and he had expected Fredericks to turn it to his own advantage. Lee turned instinctively toward his boss, hoping for some sign that this line of questioning had been expected. At Billy's perplexed shrug, he returned his attention to the man smirking down at him. "I don't think that's much of a secret," he said with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

Fredericks slid his hands into his pockets and sauntered casually along the edge of the defense table. "And yet, accurate record-keeping is vital to Agency operations, wouldn't you agree?"

Lee studied his opponent as he tried to determine where this query was headed. "I'm sure Billy would agree; I don't usually think much about it."

"Consider it now," Fredericks invited, gesturing expansively. "Consider the vast amount of information vital to a government operation as complex as the Agency. Dr. Hanson's section is responsible for the medical and psychological records of over five hundred employees as well as dozens of research projects. Mr. Whiting's section has the monumental task of handling not only all of the payroll for those employees but also the budget and expense of every operation within this organization. And Mr. Beck must maintain the precise system of checks and balances that keep all of us secure and incorruptible. I believe each of these gentlemen would agree with Mr. Melrose: without complete and accurate record-keeping, the Agency would fall into chaos in very short order."

As Fredericks paused again, silence filled the tiny room. Since Lee knew it would be futile, even detrimental, to argue, he sat stone-faced, waiting for Fredericks to continue.

"Over the years, you became somewhat . . . dependent . . . on Mrs. King's willingness to handle the more . . . mundane aspects of your responsibilities . . . case reports, typing, filing. Isn't that true?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Lee admitted with a noncommittal shrug.

"Mrs. King was accepted into formal agent-candidate training last fall, isn't that correct?"

"Yes."

"And earlier, I did hear you refer to her as your partner, did I not?"

Once again, warning bells started chiming in Lee's head. "Yes."

"So." Fredericks rambling steps came to an abrupt end, and he drew out the word as though expecting an earth-shattering revelation. "Since Mrs. King was taking a rigorous schedule of formal training classes, in addition to handling your paperwork and assisting you with whatever field investigations were assigned to the Q Bureau, what exactly did you do to hold up your end of this partnership?"

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"You wanted to see me, Billy?" With only a cursory knock, Lee pushed open the door to his Section Chief's office. Holding the silvery knob like a lifeline, he leaned his head and shoulders through the portal, uncharacteristically reluctant to enter. Usually a friendly bastion of tranquility, a calm refuge from the frenzied atmosphere of the bullpen, Field Section's inner sanctum was now oppressive in its gloomy silence. There was an aura of desecration hanging in the still air -- as though the sanctity of an ancient temple had been violated.

"Close the door and have a seat; I'll be with you in a minute," the older man said, barely looking up from the stack of file folders in front of him on the solid wood desk. "I don't know how this section is supposed to operate," he grumbled loudly as he reached for his coffee. "Every year our budget decreases, and our case load increases."

Lee's nerves, already stretched taut in anticipation of this moment, tensed almost to the breaking point. The code phrase "budget decreases" signaled that Dr. Smyth's covert scan of electronic transmissions had detected a zulu level dispatch to Amanda's computer terminal in the Q Bureau. Any moment now, the second phase of Operation Deep-Six would swing into motion.

His feet frozen to the floor, Lee watched as his boss took a fortifying gulp from the ceramic mug and grimaced, as though surprised by the bitterness of the dark liquid. "If you're busy . . . I can come back later," he croaked, wondering whether his voice sounded even remotely normal as it squeezed past the large lump that had formed in his throat.

"Close the door and sit down," Billy repeated, finally pushing the folders aside and directing a warning glare at his top agent. He wrapped both hands around the mug as if he, too, needed an anchor in this suddenly unfamiliar territory.

Since Lee already knew this room, like his own upstairs office, contained a well-concealed listening device, he assumed Billy's steady gaze wasn't cautioning him to guard his tongue. There was another reason for the other man's disquiet. Moving to one of the leather armchairs and dropping into it, Lee stretched his long legs in front of him, trying to allay his supervisor's unease with a show of, if not unconcern, at least resignation. "Whatever you say, boss," he quipped with forced cheerfulness. "Although I probably should be out in the field earning my paycheck instead of sitting here enjoying the air-conditioning."

Billy obviously wasn't deceived; if anything, his frown deepened at his friend's show of savoir-faire. "What you should do," he stated tersely, picking up a pencil and tapping it to emphasize his words, "is go up to your office and document whatever field work you've managed to accomplish during the past four weeks."

Hoping that this display was solely for the benefit of their hidden audience, Lee slumped further into the chair and affected a petulant sigh. "Oh, come on, Billy, I know I'm a little behind on paperwork, but --"

"But what you don't seem to understand," Billy cut in sharply, in the tone usually reserved for reprimanding slackers and raw recruits, "is that I can't justify your salary if I can't document that you ever close any cases." He slapped his hand down on the desktop as he continued. "If you don't give me reports on your case work, no one else within this organization has any idea of what you're working on and whether you're actually accomplishing anything."

"Okay, I get it," Lee said placatingly. "Look, Amanda's had a really heavy class schedule since she got back from medical leave, but with the other agent trainees at Station Twelve, she should be able to spend most of the week helping me catch up. You know I'm all thumbs on a keyboard, but she'll be able to get through a lot of the backlog."

"You need to remember something, Scarecrow. Amanda isn't now, and never was, solely responsible for your case reports. And she's not civilian auxiliary anymore. As an agent candidate, she has her own responsibilities in addition to her work with you in the Q Bureau. It's way past time for you to take on your fair share of the paperwork."

Lee's attention drifted as Billy continued his diatribe on the importance of timely reporting. He knew he should be listening, in case Billy's words concealed some scrap of essential information -- but he was also certain the ill-timed if not totally unfounded lecture was not a penance for overdue paperwork. It was crystal clear that Billy wanted Lee in his office, under his own watchful eyes, until Amanda had left the building.

As if on cue, a soft rap sounded on the office window, and the door opened a crack. At Billy's brusque "enter," Amanda walked hesitantly into the room, making a great pretense of establishing that hers was an unexpected intrusion. "Excuse me, sir. I can see that you're busy," she began diffidently, "but could I interrupt for a just a minute?"

Lee studied his wife carefully. While most observers wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary in her appearance or bearing, he could detect a slight pallor to her cheeks and a magnified stiffness in her posture as she stood before them, her partially clasped hands fidgeting almost indiscernibly before her.

"Come in, Amanda," Billy greeted her warmly while motioning for her to close the door and take a seat beside Lee . "Were you looking for Lee?"

"No, sir." She walked gracefully to the chair and settled herself daintily on the edge, carefully smoothing her soft pink skirt. "Actually, I wanted to speak to you. I need a favor."

"What can I do for you?" Billy asked, his casual tone at odds with the gravity of his expression.

Amanda's gaze flitted around the room and finally came to rest on the credenza where the 'bug' was hidden. Straightening her shoulders, she continued in the same respectful tone. "Well, sir, you know that I've fallen behind in my coursework this Spring. I missed several weeks of class while I was on medical leave, and the Q Bureau has been really busy." She turned toward Lee and gave him a smile that didn't quite conceal the nervousness in her eyes. "I'm hoping to make up some of coursework while Effram and the rest my class are at Station Twelve this week."

"Of course, Amanda, I understand perfectly," Billy said encouragingly. "By coincidence, I was just discussing that issue with Lee. You go right ahead and take all the time you need."

"Yes, well, the thing is, sir . . . " When she paused and took a deep breath, it was impossible for even Lee to be certain whether the hesitation was part of her act. "The thing is, sir, that I have a casual surveillance assignment, but my jeep is in the shop. It's been making a strange noise, and I left it with my mechanic yesterday. I don't know when I'll be getting it back."

Lee had to clench the arms of his chair to prevent himself from reaching over and taking one of her hands. He was afraid, if he touched her, he wouldn't be able to let go again when, all too soon, the time came. "Phillip has probably been playing around under the hood again," he finally managed, his effort at flippancy sounding lame to his own ears.

His parry at least won another strained smile from his wife. "I don't think so; I didn't notice anything wrong before Mother and the boys left for Maine. But when I left home yesterday morning, it was going 'grr . . . grr . . .whump . . . grr . . . grr . . . whump."

"Grr ... grr... what?" Lee asked, momentarily diverted by the expressive gestures that accompanied her description of the fictitious mechanical problem.

Amanda tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. "No, it's definitely a grr... grr... whump," she said, her eyes sparkling for a moment with genuine amusement before she turned back toward Billy. "I was hoping I could use a car from the motor pool, since I'll be on Agency business."

The Field Section Chief, too, smiled faintly. "I don't think that should be a problem, Amanda. Do you need the car today?"

Her gaze strayed to the listening device again as she nodded. "Yes, sir. This morning, if possible."

"Fine. I'll call down and authorize it."

"Why don't I go with you?" Lee leaned forward in his seat, anxious to complete this performance and escape. "I can give you a few pointers."

"Oh." Amanda seemed genuinely startled; her eyes widened, and a slight tremor appeared in her voice. "Well, thank you for offering. But I don't need help; and, anyway, I'm supposed to do my coursework by myself." As she spoke, she rose and took several halting steps toward the door.

"You're not going anywhere, Scarecrow. You have an appointment with your computer and your keyboard," Billy stated gruffly as Amanda slipped out of the office. Waiting only until she had closed the door quietly behind herself, he picked up his desk phone and punched in a sequence of numbers then quietly replaced the receiver.

Throwing himself out of his chair and stalking to the window, Lee lifted an edge of the narrow blind in time to see Amanda pause to pass a smile and a friendly greeting with the two military guards who had just come on duty. If he hadn't expected it, he wouldn't have noticed Dan Russert move unobtrusively through the bullpen and follow her silently through the double glass doors.

For a long moment, Lee stood almost immobile, flexing his fingers as he stared toward the hallway where his wife had disappeared. Glancing back to Billy, he read a combination of reassurance and concern in his boss's dark eyes. Dan Russert was a good agent; he would risk his own life, if necessary, to ensure Amanda's safety and the success of his mission. But there were no sure things in the world of espionage. Life or death could hinge on something as innocuous as the change of a traffic light or the excitability of a contact. As Billy's phone rang, pulling the other man's attention back into the day-to-day business of running his Section, Lee made his decision.