Chapter 7

Lee swiveled to stare, stone-faced, at the Agency Director. As much as he disliked Fredericks, it was Smyth who had put him in the nearly impossible position of defending himself against an accusation of criminal negligence while omitting any mention of his assigned role in the underlying case. Despite the gravity of the allegations now lodged against him, he remained bound by his National Security Oath. Unauthorized disclosure of any details of a zephyr-level assignment could result in charges every bit as serious as the ones before him today -- and with a great deal more merit. No matter what the state of his emotions, he couldn't look lightly on the commission of treason.

"I had a bad feeling," Lee said, his words ringing lamely in his own ears. He didn't need to glance toward the panel to know that he wasn't impressing anyone; he certainly wouldn't be convinced of the necessity of his actions if their positions were reversed.

"A bad feeling," Fredericks repeated, the phrase rolling mockingly off his tongue. "And I suppose 'a bad feeling' was sufficient reason to interfere in an assignment, the details of which were unknown to you, and which, therefore, you could easily compromise . . . or worse."

His own sarcastic comment from almost four years ago stirred in Lee's memory. 'Amanda, I think you ought to stay away from all of this . . . It could get dangerous. Even worse, you could screw things up.' The briefing reports distributed to the panel members certainly created the impression he had screwed up -- big time. "I had no intention of interfering with one of Amanda's class assignments," he said, choosing his next words with care. "But I felt she needed someone watching her back. That's what partners do for each other."

"A noble impulse, I'm sure," Fredericks said dryly, "but one which an experienced agent should have known could lead to serious, even fatal, consequences." He turned away from Lee, as though disgusted, and addressed the men on the opposite side of the small room. "A trained operative, with Lee Stetson's years of experience, should have known better than to interfere in a mission when he hadn't been briefed on its specifics. Instead, he chose to stumble blindly and clumsily into a meeting between another agent and an unidentified contact." Looking back to the defense table, he pounded his right fist into his left hand and then pointed an accusing finger at Lee. "Stetson should have known and fully considered the risks involved in alerting said contact to his own presence . . . causing a disturbance that panicked the man and escalated what should have been a harmless encounter into chaos and violence."

Lee closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands as he listened to Fredericks' diatribe. Once again, images from the dim warehouse flashed through his mind: a stack of sturdy boxes swaying away against his weight and then falling, almost in slow motion, toward the floor . . . a small man brandishing an automatic weapon, firing at random into the semidarkness . . . orange sparks, glittering like fireflies, as the bullets ricocheted off the heavy metal of the forklifts and the shadowed concrete of the walls . . . his wife's pale face as he cradled her still, slender body against his chest.

As though from a great distance, Lee heard Fredericks continuing to rant. ". . . And then, after creating this pandemonium, Stetson didn't even have the presence of mind to subdue and apprehend Mrs. King's assailant. If Supervisor Beaman isn't able to identify the man and more fully explain the circumstances of the rendezvous, we may never fully understand what occurred."

Lee had to swallow hard to stifle the protest that threatened to erupt from him. He knew the briefing reports contained no mention of Dan Russert or the singularly uncommunicative and uncooperative Russian agent who Russert was currently guarding at Station Twelve's base camp. As far as the panel members knew, Lee was guilty of exactly the acts that Fredericks was recapping: he had meddled in Amanda's assignment, despite having no reasonable excuse for interfering; he had performed like a bungling amateur, causing an unnecessary bloodbath; and then he had allowed the perpetrator to escape, rushing to his fallen partner's side instead of reacting like a seasoned professional. Still, it was nearly impossible to sit and listen to Fredericks caustically outlining those actions without losing control of his temper.

As Lee sat, slumped in his chair, Hanson motioned toward the Chief of Internal Security. "I have to agree with Robert's earlier concern," he said, sounding both somber and troubled. "Without Mr. Beaman's statement, it will be impossible to evaluate the judiciousness of Mr. Stetson's actions. We don't know the purpose of Mrs. King's assignment or whether there were risks which were known to her but unknown to Stetson. There is a notation in Melrose's statement that Mrs. King told him she would be doing surveillance for one of her classes on Wednesday morning, and we also have a brief statement from agent Francine Desmond," he paused to gesture toward the back of the room, "who talked to Mrs. King shortly before she left I.F.F. that day. According to her, Mrs. King's assignment included a meeting with a contact and the transfer some kind of information. But none of this gives me a clear picture of the morning's events."

While Hanson was concluding his ponderous observation, Lee stole a glance to the back of the room and saw that Francine was now perched on the edge of a chair just inside the door. Although his friend gave all the outward appearance of waiting deferentially in case her testimony was needed, something about her bearing told Lee that she had another purpose.

"My point exactly," said Beck, appearing pleased that someone had finally seen the merit in his earlier criticism. "In fact, it seems to me that this Beaman might share some culpability with Stetson. Even though there doesn't seem to be a link to the present case, I recall that another trainee was killed on duty several months ago. Our agent candidate program is in need of serious study and restructuring if first year recruits are handling vital government projects in the guise of training missions. Not only would we be putting lives at unnecessary risk, but we could be entrusting critical operations to unqualified personnel."

"That's right," Whiting agreed, bobbing his head like a trained seal. "Since Mrs. King's assailant fled the scene, we don't even know whether she completed her assignment or what became of the disk she was carrying."

Lee jerked upright, slowly pivoting his head and shoulders toward Whiting. "How did you know Amanda was carrying a disk?" he asked, careful to keep any emotion from his voice.

Whiting's eyebrows rose and his eyes widened in a look of almost comical alarm. "I'm sure a disk is mentioned here somewhere," the man stuttered, lowering his gaze and shuffling aimlessly through his notes and reports. "One of these reports says something about a disk."

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Harold," the Agency Director lazily disagreed as he reached out to pick up one of the tumblers from their end of the table. Filling the glass with water from the accompanying pitcher and raising it to his lips, he took a leisurely sip before turning to face the quivering man with narrowed eyes. "I've studied the briefing reports quite closely, and there is no mention of a disk. Perhaps, though, Fredericks said something about it this morning while my attention was wandering."

"Yes, yes, I stand corrected," Whiting blustered, fidgeting his his chair and crumpling several papers. "Mr. Fredericks said it."

"Since Ms. Black is creating a transcript of this proceeding," Smyth said smoothly, twirling the remaining water in his glass as he gestured toward the stenographer, "she can tell us whether a disk has been discussed."

The gray-haired woman obediently unwound and examined the long roll of paper on which the morning's dialogue was recorded. "The word 'disk' hasn't been used this morning," she finally said, shaking her head decisively.

"Someone said Mrs. King was transferring information to a contact," Whiting said almost imploringly. "I must have assumed she was using a disk. It's a logical assumption . . . ." A note of panic was rising in his voice as his eyes darted from face to face, apparently looking for support. He didn't find any. While Hanson, Beck and Fredericks appeared puzzled, the others in the small room were regarding him with varying levels of appraisal and accusation. Just when Lee thought Whiting might simply break down and cry, the Operations Chief jumped unsteadily to his feet and pulled a handgun from under his jacket, holding it in shaking hands.

While some in the room didn't have a full understanding of what was happening, all knew the danger of a loaded gun in the possession of a frightened and apparently inept marksman. Everyone froze as the Chief of Internal Operations began waving the weapon in front of him, aiming wildly from person to person, clearly neither confident nor proficient in its use. He backed away from the table and moved toward the door, announcing in an almost inaudible voice that if everyone stayed seated, no one would get hurt.

As Whiting passed the defense table, Lee saw the Agency Director pull back his arm and pitch his water glass into the nearest wall. Whiting, who was focused on the men closest to him, jumped visibly at the splintering crash. Seizing the opportunity provided by the distraction, Lee launched himself out of his chair and lunged at the older man, trying to force his gun hand upward as they both tumbled heavily to the floor.

The roar of the gunshot thundered in Lee's ears as the weapon discharged, and as he struggled with the flailing man, he saw Francine fall to her knees, blood oozing from her shoulder.