Chapter 6
As Lee looked from Fredericks to Beck, he struggled to maintain a blank facade to hide his mounting suspicion. It could have been chance or guesswork that had led to this line of questioning. On the other hand, it seemed more than mere coincidence that Fredericks was mirroring the Wednesday morning discussion that had taken place in the Field Section Chief's office.
He was about to risk a glance at Billy, to gauge whether his boss shared his suspicions, when there was an unexpected interruption.
"The panel has a fairly clear impression of Stetson's working relationship with Mrs. King and his . . . imperfections as a partner and historian," the Agency Director said languidly. "I think it's time for us to move on to the facts of the incident in question.'
"I agree," Dr. Hanson concurred, nodding his head solemnly. "While it is important for the members of the panel to have an understanding of Mr. Stetson's psychological makeup, we don't know whether any of the information presented thus far has a bearing on the circumstances leading up to Mrs. King's death."
It was apparent from Fredericks' expression that he wanted to challenge Hanson's skepticism. His face was slightly flushed and his narrowed eyes gave new meaning to the phrase 'if looks could kill.' When he spoke, though, his tone was cool. "Since most of the panel members know Stetson only by reputation," he said, glossing past the reality that the Scarecrow was known as a topnotch operative who often succeeded where other agents had failed, "I think it's important to lay a foundation for his actions on the morning in question. These questions bring to light character flaws which--"
"Which, I believe, have been sufficiently detailed," Smyth stated in a tone that brooked no argument, for once abandoning his indolent pose and directing a withering stare at the Internal Affairs prosecutor.
Although Fredericks' mouth remained set in a stubborn line, he swallowed visibly. He had no choice but to comply with the direct order to move forward. "Very well," he said stiffly, as he walked back to the prosecution table. By the time he had exchanged the notes he had been using for a new stack of papers and turned to address the panel, he clearly had regained his cocky composure. "I believe you have all had an opportunity to review the initial briefing reports taken Wednesday afternoon -- including the statements made by Stetson and Field Section Chief William Melrose." As he mentioned Billy's name, Fredericks swiveled to nod curtly toward the defense table. "If there are no questions about the reports as submitted, I would like to walk Stetson through the events of Wednesday morning in order to clarify several details."
"Actually, I have a concern," Beck said, shuffling through the reports in front of him as though searching for a lost puzzle piece. "I understand from the briefing reports that Mrs. King was on a training assignment at the time of her death, yet there isn't a report here from her training supervisor . . . . I believe Effram Beaman is the name that was briefly mentioned."
"As you should have read," Billy interjected smoothly, placing a hand on Lee's arm to convey that he preferred to handle this topic, "Beaman and the rest of Mrs. King's training section were at Station Twelve when this incident occurred. Since there are no telephone lines in that sector, I sent one of my field operatives, Dan Russert, to notify him. Beaman left immediately for Maine to track down Mrs. King's family. I expect them all back in D.C. sometime this evening."
Beck appeared aghast at the omission, despite the fact that it was almost unavoidable. "But surely the rules governing this proceeding require a report from the deceased's immediate supervisor?"
Lee found himself smiling despite his inner turmoil. Billy's air of calm assurance was much more impressive than Beck's theatrical posturing. "Those rules also require that the preliminary inquest hearing be held within 48 hours," the Field Section Chief said dryly, "in order that the incident remain clear in the minds of those giving testimony. We could have requested a continuance until next week in order to include a statement from Beaman, but doing so would have been counterproductive, being that he wasn't directly involved in the incident."
"We've already agreed that we should review the transcripts of the Jarvis inquest before making a final decision on this case," Whiting piped up nervously, knocking over his stack of papers and grabbing ineffectually at several as they fluttered to the floor. "I doubt those documents will be available until next week, so perhaps William could make Mr. Beaman's statement available at the same time?"
Lee coughed loudly in an attempt to disguise his involuntary snort of disdain at the little man's jumpiness, but Billy spoke patiently, as though addressing an agitated child. "I'm sure that will be possible."
"Fine," cut in Fredericks, apparently anxious to regain control of the hearing. "If we have that small detail resolved to everyone's satisfaction, we can move forward as Dr. Smyth has requested." He directed a smile of obsequious charm at the Agency Director before focusing on Lee with glittering malice. "We have touched briefly on your feelings of . . . protectiveness toward your partner, Scarecrow, but I think the panel would like to know why, on Wednesday morning, you were following Mrs. King on a routine training mission."
####################################
Lee kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel of his sleek sports car while he reached out to tweak a knob on the metallic box plugged into the cigarette lighter. Its electronic beeping rose slightly in pitch but maintained a steady, regular pattern as he executed a smooth right turn and accelerated.
Drumming his fingers on the dash, Lee mentally calculated how far he might be from Amanda. Russert was probably trailing her by about three blocks, to be sure that anyone observing the progress of her circuitous route through D.C. was unaware she had an Agency tail. The range of the tracking device installed inconspicuously behind the rear bumper of her Agency sedan was a quarter of a mile. Russert could safely keep almost that distance between them, since he knew Amanda wouldn't make any effort to shake him off.
The identical device Lee had hidden on Russert's plain blue coupe allowed him to stay well out of sight of the experienced agent, but it also meant that he could be as much as half a mile behind his wife at any given moment. And that half a mile gnawed at him. At his current rate of speed, it could take him a full minute to reach her -- and almost anything could happen in sixty seconds.
It had been over an hour since the small caravan had left the Agency. Amanda had made four stops, each lasting less than five minutes. Since the stops had been in well-populated shopping areas, he assumed that she had been directed to phone booths for further instructions.
Now, however, he felt that the meet was getting closer. They had left the bustling tourist sector and appeared to be winding their way toward the warehouse district along the Potomac River. With each passing block, his surroundings grew more drab and squalid while traffic became steadily thinner.
He was becoming concerned that he might have to drop out of range of the tracking device to prevent Russert from spotting the 'Vette when the beeping changed to a low-pitched mechanical hum and then abruptly stopped, indicating that the other agent had come to a halt. Easing his foot from the accelerator, Lee slowed to a crawl until he caught sight of Russert's car. It was only a short distance ahead, parked on a narrow street between two rows of huge, concrete block warehouses. As Lee pulled to the curb, he scanned the area, trying to determine which building seemed the most likely spot for the meet. The entire locale seemed unnaturally quiet, and he realized that most of the oppressive, gray buildings were vacant.
Exiting the car, he moved silently up the street, keeping as close as possible to the shadows of the tall warehouses. "Where are you, Amanda?" he muttered under his breath as he counted at least half a dozen steel doors through which she could have disappeared.
The words had barely left his mouth when he saw a small tangle of blue wire wrapped around a rusty railing on the right side of the street, halfway up the block. The iron bars framed a cement ramp leading to a partially open door. "It's always the blue wire," he whispered, shaking his head and smiling in spite of his apprehension.
Approaching at a half run, Lee slipped through the doorway and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. This was a perfect place for an ambush, he realized grimly. The high stacks of sturdy wooden shipping crates and more flimsy cardboard boxes created dozens of pathways for anyone intent on sneaking up on an unsuspecting victim. Reaching inside his jacket, he gripped his handgun. Its solid weight was familiar and comforting. He held it ready before him while moving soundlessly to his left and starting up one of the aisles.
He had moved about thirty feet when he heard his wife's voice. Despite the faint echo in the cavernous warehouse, he was certain she was only a short distance ahead of him and to the right. And she was clearly playing for time, waiting for her backup to get into position.
"I can't do that," Amanda was calling to an unseen listener. "This is a class assignment. Effram will expect everything to be done by the book."
"This Effram," coaxed a deep and heavily accented male voice from Lee's left. "He will wish you to complete your assignment, yes? To do so, you must give me the package."
"I suppose," returned Amanda's voice, a perfect blend of suspicion and nervous indecision. "But how do I know you're the person I'm supposed to give it to?"
The man sounded frustrated, a feeling Lee would have sympathized with under other circumstances. "This is where you were told to come, is it not?" he asked patiently. "There is no one else here; therefore, I must be the correct person."
"I followed the directions I was given, so this should be the right place," she called back, sounding unconvinced. "Something doesn't seem right, though. I was told to meet my contact in an abandoned warehouse, but just look at all these crates and boxes and equipment. This warehouse obviously isn't abandoned. And, you know, there's another thing that bothers me. Isn't it strange that no one else is here in the middle of the day?"
Lee had reached the end of his row of crates, and ahead of him was an open area. To his left, he saw what appeared to be a small office. To his right, where he assumed Amanda was hiding, were several parked forklifts. Hoping that Russert was working his way toward the office, Lee started to edge toward his wife's position.
"The workers are on the dock, unloading a ship," the man said after a short pause. His voice was still calm and persuasive, but Lee could hear an edge of impatience creeping into the words. "We must complete our transaction before they return."
"But if there are usually other people here, how do I know you're the one I'm supposed to give the package to?"
"If you will simply come into the office so we can discuss the matter, I am certain that I can put your mind at ease."
"Section nineteen of the Agency tactical manual says that in a isolated or hazardous location I should engage in a recognition sequence with my contact before leaving a position of safety."
"I have already told you, there is not a recognition sequence." The contact was definitely getting testy, and he was no longer attempting to hide it.
"Well, I think that's strange, too, don't you? Because Effram always tells us to follow the manual, and the manual says there should be a recognition sequence when meeting with an unknown contact. So this could be a test. Maybe if I give you the information without properly verifying your identity, I'll get a failing grade."
Lee would never know how the man might have responded to Amanda's last sally, because at that moment his right foot encountered a small puddle of oil. He slipped, his shoulder brushing a pile of cardboard boxes and sending several from the top of the stack tumbling to the ground. In the next instant, he heard a volley of muffled, angry words from the office. The verbal outburst was followed almost immediately by a flurry of gunshots from an automatic weapon as a small, wiry figure appeared, outlined in the brightness of the office's florescent lighting. Even before Lee had fully regained his balance, he saw Russert pounce on the man from the cover of a stack of crates opposite Lee.
Confident that the other agent could easily subdue the lone gunman, Lee sprinted to the right, in the direction he had last heard his wife's voice. Her name was wrenched from him in a strangled howl when he found her crumpled, face down, on the concrete floor, her dark hair fanned around her. As he sank to the ground and pulled her slender form onto his lap, her head lolled onto his shoulder and a small manilla envelope slipped from her limp fingers.
As Lee looked from Fredericks to Beck, he struggled to maintain a blank facade to hide his mounting suspicion. It could have been chance or guesswork that had led to this line of questioning. On the other hand, it seemed more than mere coincidence that Fredericks was mirroring the Wednesday morning discussion that had taken place in the Field Section Chief's office.
He was about to risk a glance at Billy, to gauge whether his boss shared his suspicions, when there was an unexpected interruption.
"The panel has a fairly clear impression of Stetson's working relationship with Mrs. King and his . . . imperfections as a partner and historian," the Agency Director said languidly. "I think it's time for us to move on to the facts of the incident in question.'
"I agree," Dr. Hanson concurred, nodding his head solemnly. "While it is important for the members of the panel to have an understanding of Mr. Stetson's psychological makeup, we don't know whether any of the information presented thus far has a bearing on the circumstances leading up to Mrs. King's death."
It was apparent from Fredericks' expression that he wanted to challenge Hanson's skepticism. His face was slightly flushed and his narrowed eyes gave new meaning to the phrase 'if looks could kill.' When he spoke, though, his tone was cool. "Since most of the panel members know Stetson only by reputation," he said, glossing past the reality that the Scarecrow was known as a topnotch operative who often succeeded where other agents had failed, "I think it's important to lay a foundation for his actions on the morning in question. These questions bring to light character flaws which--"
"Which, I believe, have been sufficiently detailed," Smyth stated in a tone that brooked no argument, for once abandoning his indolent pose and directing a withering stare at the Internal Affairs prosecutor.
Although Fredericks' mouth remained set in a stubborn line, he swallowed visibly. He had no choice but to comply with the direct order to move forward. "Very well," he said stiffly, as he walked back to the prosecution table. By the time he had exchanged the notes he had been using for a new stack of papers and turned to address the panel, he clearly had regained his cocky composure. "I believe you have all had an opportunity to review the initial briefing reports taken Wednesday afternoon -- including the statements made by Stetson and Field Section Chief William Melrose." As he mentioned Billy's name, Fredericks swiveled to nod curtly toward the defense table. "If there are no questions about the reports as submitted, I would like to walk Stetson through the events of Wednesday morning in order to clarify several details."
"Actually, I have a concern," Beck said, shuffling through the reports in front of him as though searching for a lost puzzle piece. "I understand from the briefing reports that Mrs. King was on a training assignment at the time of her death, yet there isn't a report here from her training supervisor . . . . I believe Effram Beaman is the name that was briefly mentioned."
"As you should have read," Billy interjected smoothly, placing a hand on Lee's arm to convey that he preferred to handle this topic, "Beaman and the rest of Mrs. King's training section were at Station Twelve when this incident occurred. Since there are no telephone lines in that sector, I sent one of my field operatives, Dan Russert, to notify him. Beaman left immediately for Maine to track down Mrs. King's family. I expect them all back in D.C. sometime this evening."
Beck appeared aghast at the omission, despite the fact that it was almost unavoidable. "But surely the rules governing this proceeding require a report from the deceased's immediate supervisor?"
Lee found himself smiling despite his inner turmoil. Billy's air of calm assurance was much more impressive than Beck's theatrical posturing. "Those rules also require that the preliminary inquest hearing be held within 48 hours," the Field Section Chief said dryly, "in order that the incident remain clear in the minds of those giving testimony. We could have requested a continuance until next week in order to include a statement from Beaman, but doing so would have been counterproductive, being that he wasn't directly involved in the incident."
"We've already agreed that we should review the transcripts of the Jarvis inquest before making a final decision on this case," Whiting piped up nervously, knocking over his stack of papers and grabbing ineffectually at several as they fluttered to the floor. "I doubt those documents will be available until next week, so perhaps William could make Mr. Beaman's statement available at the same time?"
Lee coughed loudly in an attempt to disguise his involuntary snort of disdain at the little man's jumpiness, but Billy spoke patiently, as though addressing an agitated child. "I'm sure that will be possible."
"Fine," cut in Fredericks, apparently anxious to regain control of the hearing. "If we have that small detail resolved to everyone's satisfaction, we can move forward as Dr. Smyth has requested." He directed a smile of obsequious charm at the Agency Director before focusing on Lee with glittering malice. "We have touched briefly on your feelings of . . . protectiveness toward your partner, Scarecrow, but I think the panel would like to know why, on Wednesday morning, you were following Mrs. King on a routine training mission."
####################################
Lee kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel of his sleek sports car while he reached out to tweak a knob on the metallic box plugged into the cigarette lighter. Its electronic beeping rose slightly in pitch but maintained a steady, regular pattern as he executed a smooth right turn and accelerated.
Drumming his fingers on the dash, Lee mentally calculated how far he might be from Amanda. Russert was probably trailing her by about three blocks, to be sure that anyone observing the progress of her circuitous route through D.C. was unaware she had an Agency tail. The range of the tracking device installed inconspicuously behind the rear bumper of her Agency sedan was a quarter of a mile. Russert could safely keep almost that distance between them, since he knew Amanda wouldn't make any effort to shake him off.
The identical device Lee had hidden on Russert's plain blue coupe allowed him to stay well out of sight of the experienced agent, but it also meant that he could be as much as half a mile behind his wife at any given moment. And that half a mile gnawed at him. At his current rate of speed, it could take him a full minute to reach her -- and almost anything could happen in sixty seconds.
It had been over an hour since the small caravan had left the Agency. Amanda had made four stops, each lasting less than five minutes. Since the stops had been in well-populated shopping areas, he assumed that she had been directed to phone booths for further instructions.
Now, however, he felt that the meet was getting closer. They had left the bustling tourist sector and appeared to be winding their way toward the warehouse district along the Potomac River. With each passing block, his surroundings grew more drab and squalid while traffic became steadily thinner.
He was becoming concerned that he might have to drop out of range of the tracking device to prevent Russert from spotting the 'Vette when the beeping changed to a low-pitched mechanical hum and then abruptly stopped, indicating that the other agent had come to a halt. Easing his foot from the accelerator, Lee slowed to a crawl until he caught sight of Russert's car. It was only a short distance ahead, parked on a narrow street between two rows of huge, concrete block warehouses. As Lee pulled to the curb, he scanned the area, trying to determine which building seemed the most likely spot for the meet. The entire locale seemed unnaturally quiet, and he realized that most of the oppressive, gray buildings were vacant.
Exiting the car, he moved silently up the street, keeping as close as possible to the shadows of the tall warehouses. "Where are you, Amanda?" he muttered under his breath as he counted at least half a dozen steel doors through which she could have disappeared.
The words had barely left his mouth when he saw a small tangle of blue wire wrapped around a rusty railing on the right side of the street, halfway up the block. The iron bars framed a cement ramp leading to a partially open door. "It's always the blue wire," he whispered, shaking his head and smiling in spite of his apprehension.
Approaching at a half run, Lee slipped through the doorway and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. This was a perfect place for an ambush, he realized grimly. The high stacks of sturdy wooden shipping crates and more flimsy cardboard boxes created dozens of pathways for anyone intent on sneaking up on an unsuspecting victim. Reaching inside his jacket, he gripped his handgun. Its solid weight was familiar and comforting. He held it ready before him while moving soundlessly to his left and starting up one of the aisles.
He had moved about thirty feet when he heard his wife's voice. Despite the faint echo in the cavernous warehouse, he was certain she was only a short distance ahead of him and to the right. And she was clearly playing for time, waiting for her backup to get into position.
"I can't do that," Amanda was calling to an unseen listener. "This is a class assignment. Effram will expect everything to be done by the book."
"This Effram," coaxed a deep and heavily accented male voice from Lee's left. "He will wish you to complete your assignment, yes? To do so, you must give me the package."
"I suppose," returned Amanda's voice, a perfect blend of suspicion and nervous indecision. "But how do I know you're the person I'm supposed to give it to?"
The man sounded frustrated, a feeling Lee would have sympathized with under other circumstances. "This is where you were told to come, is it not?" he asked patiently. "There is no one else here; therefore, I must be the correct person."
"I followed the directions I was given, so this should be the right place," she called back, sounding unconvinced. "Something doesn't seem right, though. I was told to meet my contact in an abandoned warehouse, but just look at all these crates and boxes and equipment. This warehouse obviously isn't abandoned. And, you know, there's another thing that bothers me. Isn't it strange that no one else is here in the middle of the day?"
Lee had reached the end of his row of crates, and ahead of him was an open area. To his left, he saw what appeared to be a small office. To his right, where he assumed Amanda was hiding, were several parked forklifts. Hoping that Russert was working his way toward the office, Lee started to edge toward his wife's position.
"The workers are on the dock, unloading a ship," the man said after a short pause. His voice was still calm and persuasive, but Lee could hear an edge of impatience creeping into the words. "We must complete our transaction before they return."
"But if there are usually other people here, how do I know you're the one I'm supposed to give the package to?"
"If you will simply come into the office so we can discuss the matter, I am certain that I can put your mind at ease."
"Section nineteen of the Agency tactical manual says that in a isolated or hazardous location I should engage in a recognition sequence with my contact before leaving a position of safety."
"I have already told you, there is not a recognition sequence." The contact was definitely getting testy, and he was no longer attempting to hide it.
"Well, I think that's strange, too, don't you? Because Effram always tells us to follow the manual, and the manual says there should be a recognition sequence when meeting with an unknown contact. So this could be a test. Maybe if I give you the information without properly verifying your identity, I'll get a failing grade."
Lee would never know how the man might have responded to Amanda's last sally, because at that moment his right foot encountered a small puddle of oil. He slipped, his shoulder brushing a pile of cardboard boxes and sending several from the top of the stack tumbling to the ground. In the next instant, he heard a volley of muffled, angry words from the office. The verbal outburst was followed almost immediately by a flurry of gunshots from an automatic weapon as a small, wiry figure appeared, outlined in the brightness of the office's florescent lighting. Even before Lee had fully regained his balance, he saw Russert pounce on the man from the cover of a stack of crates opposite Lee.
Confident that the other agent could easily subdue the lone gunman, Lee sprinted to the right, in the direction he had last heard his wife's voice. Her name was wrenched from him in a strangled howl when he found her crumpled, face down, on the concrete floor, her dark hair fanned around her. As he sank to the ground and pulled her slender form onto his lap, her head lolled onto his shoulder and a small manilla envelope slipped from her limp fingers.
