Chapter Nine

Bobbie Latham tucked the last few sheets of paper into her briefcase and switched off the lights as she exited the conference room. It was almost eight o'clock, and she was eager to be on her way. She never had gotten dinner, and she could only hope that Sturgis and the kids had done their usual routine tonight and gotten Pizza or Chinese or some other sort of take-out where leftovers were guaranteed. She was about to turn and head for the private stairwell that led to the underground parking garage when she spotted the solitary light burning from the office at the end of the hall.

She hesitated for a moment, half tempted to flee to the safety of the stairwell and the lure of leftover pizza. She had never been very good at this sort of thing. Political hardball was her forte, not …girl talk. She smiled wryly at the thought. Even Rachel knew it. If it was about money, school, career and education plans or what she thought of the political situation in Liberia or some other far off place, her daughter never hesitated to approach her. But when it came to problems with friends, boys or other personal matters, she always deferred to Sturgis. Bobbie shook her head. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about those things, but she just wasn't good at it. Still, as she stared at the pool of light spilling out from the front office, she knew she had to make an attempt. If she didn't, she was going to think about that solitary desk lamp burning late into the night and she was going to feel guilty.

Besides, she reminded herself, there was a good chance that these personal issues could affect the case. As a responsible lawyer, she could not allow that to happen and she'd always been one to meet problems head on, no matter how unpleasant the situation might become. Tightening her fingers around the handle of her briefcase, she strode purposefully down the hall towards the open doorway.

The brass banker's desk lamp with its green glass shade cast a warm golden glow across the elegant cherry desk and warmed the rich dark paneling of the room. Behind the desk, the sleek black leather chair was turned to face the windows and all Bobbie could see of her partner was a denim clad leg that ended in a white sneaker, resting upon the edge of the credenza.

"Are you going to be ok with this?" Bobbie asked, slowly entering the office and dropping her briefcase into one of the two small leather arm chairs on the other side of the desk.

A dry laugh was issued from the chair. "It's a little late to be answering that isn't it? You should have asked me when we took this case in the first place."
            "I thought about it," Bobbie admitted, "But I decided that if I could handle it, you could." She allowed her eyes to wander across the collection of small framed pictures that topped the credenza. "You didn't exactly have a corner on the market when it came to being in love with Harm."

The chair whirled around with vicious force and Bobbie met the flashing brown eyes squarely, momentarily glad that her words seemed to have left Mac too angry to speak. She raised her hands in a placating gesture. "That didn't quite come out the way I meant it."

"And just how did you mean it?" Mac ground out.

Bobbie sighed. "We all cared about him, Sarah. It's just the kind of guy that he was. Sometimes I think everybody he ever met was just a little bit in love with him. That's why this case is so difficult. We shouldn't take it, because we care too much. –But we can't refuse it."

"—Because we care too much." Mac finished softly.

Bobbie nodded and dropped into the other chair. "But our strong feelings for Harm aren't really what I was asking about. What I meant was, are you going to be ok with where this might lead?"

"You mean Bud's mystery man at Pearl Harbor?"

Bobbie nodded. "Bud only reached that conclusion by an educated guess, but you and I both know it implies more than that. I sat on the intelligence oversight committee –and you're married to the DCI. We both know that you can't pull off something like that without some serious connections. No simple station chief would have had the authority to bury something like that. It had to come from someone higher up the food chain –like a high ranking State Department Attaché."

"Or a CIA Deputy Director," Mac murmured. She gave Bobbie a long look. "Do you remember Harrison Kershaw?"

Bobbie raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Puppet master? Who could forget him? He testified before our committee when Watts was asked to step down." Bobbie paused to reflect. "He was a smooth operator," she said at last. "Sort of a blonde James Bond meets L.L. Bean. I think he could talk anybody into doing anything and he didn't have to be sweet about it. –God knows his testimony was good enough to make him a popular shoe-in as the next DCI."

"He was at Harm's funeral," Mac said.

Bobbie stared at her in surprise. "Kershaw? Are you sure? –I don't remember seeing him."

Mac frowned. "He only came to the grave side service. At the time, I didn't think much of it. I knew Harm had worked for him once, when he went to Paraguay to find out what had happened to Clay and me. I just assumed he must have come with Catherine Gale."

Bobbie shook her head. "Not exactly Kershaw's style. From everything I've ever heard about him, he wasn't much of one for public appearances. They used to say he could have walked through the middle of the bull pen at the Washington Post and even the top reporters on the Washington beat wouldn't have recognized him. The only two times I ever saw him were when he testified and when he was sworn in as DCI."

She fixed Mac with a hard look. "You really think Kershaw might have had something to do with this?"

Mac returned the look with equanimity. "Wouldn't you?"

Bobbie sighed. "It is odd that he showed up at the funeral. –And he would have had the clout to do it, --but why?"

Mac smiled faintly. "Why does the CIA do anything?"

Bobbie continued to stare at Mac, studying and assessing each hint of expression that traveled across her face. "Have you talked to Clay about any of this yet?"

Mac's features hardened. "I told him we had taken the case. Other than that, we haven't really discussed it."

Bobbie snorted. "I find that hard to believe. Knowing Clay, I'm sure he'd have something to say about it –whether you wanted to hear it or not."
            "He didn't like it very much," Mac admitted, glancing away towards the window with its view of the dimly lit street outside.

"I imagine he didn't," Bobbie said, noting the tension that suddenly seemed to radiate off the other woman's body. So she hadn't been wrong, she thought. There definitely was trouble brewing between Clay and Sarah. She wondered if it was just this case, or something more. She hated to pry, but she had to know. This wasn't just personal any more. It was business.

She shot another glance to the credenza, with its array of small framed photographs. Front and center stood the largest of these, a family portrait of Penny and Clay and Mac, but as it often did, Bobbie's eye came to rest on a smaller image just to the left of it. It was a casual shot of Clayton Webb wearing riding clothes and standing in front of a white rail fence. A large bay gelding stood just behind Webb's shoulder on the other side of the fence. The horse's sleek ears were tipped forward and the liquid brown eyes seemed to dance with mischief as the black muzzle sniffed and poked at Clay's breast pocket in search of a treat. There was something about the picture that Bobbie had always liked. It was as if both Webb and the horse were smiling. –Not that a horse was capable of smiling. For that matter, she wasn't sure that Webb was, either. The best he ever seemed to manage was that irritating smirk. But this was different. This had nothing to do with their mouths. The smile was in their eyes. And it was real.

Webb was a complicated man, Bobbie thought, with so many facets that one sometimes had trouble reconciling the real person with the image he chose to project. There was the smooth politician, the wealthy playboy, the smarmy bureaucrat, and the charming spy. There was also the arrogant asshole, the ruthless negotiator, the hardened soldier and the stone-cold killer. –And somewhere, waging war with all of these personas, was the man in that picture, the loving father and devoted husband who could smile with a horse. That was what made dealing with him so difficult. You always had to figure out who he was today. You had to remember that he was all of these people …and none of them.  

She wondered if even Sarah had seen all the sides of Clayton Webb. Somehow she doubted it, though she was willing to allow that Sarah had seen more of them than anyone else ever had. Webb was funny that way. It was as if he always held some part of himself in check, showing different sides to different people, but never allowing anyone to see the whole. She studied the look of patent unhappiness in her friend's eyes and wondered just how much he was allowing Sarah to see now.

"You knew going into this that Clay wasn't going to like it," Bobbie observed, "that was why you put off telling him about it for so long."

"If I'd told him about it when we started, he would have tried to talk me out of taking the case," Mac said.
            "Undoubtedly," Bobbie agreed. "Which only leads me to wonder…are his reasons for not wanting you looking into Harm's death personal, or professional?"

"Maybe both," Mac said, and Bobbie did not quite like the distance in her voice.

Mac continued to stare vacantly out the window into the darkness of the Washington night. Somewhere beyond the black, vacant windows of the brownstones across the street and the blocks of buildings between, she knew that the Washington Monument speared the night sky, the floodlights at its base illuminating it like an alabaster sword. But she couldn't see it from here. She couldn't see much of anything –except for the shuttered look on Clay's face when she had told him about the Zhukov case.

"When I talked to Clay about it this afternoon, I asked him if the Company was involved."

"What did he say?"

Mac was silent for a long moment. In the faint glow of the lamplight, Bobbie caught the glint of a tear as it trailed down her cheek. When at last she spoke, her voice was steady, but the words were tense and tightly wound.

"He lied to me, Bobbie," she said softly. "The son of a bitch lied to me."

And then, suddenly, surprisingly, she seemed to collapse. The tears were so swift and unexpected, that Bobbie was momentarily at a loss. Uncertainly, she rose from her chair and approached Sarah. She reached out and tentatively stroked her hair. When she wasn't rebuffed, she dropped to her knees and embraced the sobbing woman. She'd never been very good at this, but she somehow managed to mumble a few soothing words as she rocked them gently back and forth. Pressing her head tightly to Sarah's, she glanced over the shaking shoulder to the credenza with it's collection of pictures. This time, her eye fell on one lone photograph, shoved to the back against the wall. She stared hard for a long moment into the clear blue gaze of Harmon Rabb Jr.

'What in the hell happened to you Harm?' She wondered bitterly. 'And what in God's name does Clay have to do with it?'

***

Ten years earlier…

May 16th, 2011

Seoul, South Korea

            He'd never been to Korea before, but it was just about like any of the other cities he'd visited during this most recent posting to Asia. There were the same dingy, rain slick streets, the same blaring cacophony of voices and music and traffic, and the same overpowering smells of exotic foods and unwashed bodies that tantalized his taste buds as much as it turned his stomach. What's more, he realized as he exited his hotel and plunged into the crowded side-walk, there were the same thin-faced street kids looking to make a buck.

            He'd taken no more than a few steps before he felt a slight tug at his clothing that instinctively had him reaching for where his wallet would have been, had he bothered to carry it with him. He looked down to see a boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age tugging at his jacket.

            "You need guide?" the boy asked in fairly understandable English. "I take you. I speak English. I speak good. I show you city. I find you good time."

            His first instinct was to refuse, but the fact of the matter was that he really wasn't sure of where in the hell he was going in the first place, and he'd likely need more directions before he got there. Besides, there was something about the kid that he couldn't help but like.

            He stared into the slim brown face for a moment, sizing up the potential employee. The kid possessed a streetwise intelligence to be sure, but something in the dark, wide-set eyes suggested that he really wouldn't be a bad kid if someone would take the time to clean him up and feed him a meal or two. He toyed with the idea of being that someone.

            "How much?"

            "Fifty dollars …American."

            He snorted. "Do I look like Donald Trump?"

            "Who Donald Trump?" the boy asked.

            "A really rich guy," he said dryly. "—Twenty dollars American."

            It was the kid's turn to scowl. "Do I look like schmuck to you?"
            "All right," he countered. "Thirty dollars and I buy you dinner."

            The boy considered this for a moment. "OK Joe."

            He gave the kid half the money and the name of the place that he was seeking. The boy nodded and darted into the street.

            "I get us cab," the kid called excitedly over his shoulder.

            Which was how, twenty minutes later, he found himself standing on the curb before a hole-in-the-wall internet café on the neon lit street of down-town Seoul. He handed the kid another bill.

            "Stay with the cab," he instructed. "When I come back out we'll go get some food."
            Pausing to log in at the front counter, he threaded his way through the tables and kiosks filled with rows of computer work stations and packed with a wide variety of internet junkies. He was surprised to note that a fair number of the clientele was European, with a few Americans and Australians thrown in for good measure. There was, however, only one American in particular that he was interested in: the man he had been sent to meet. –Whoever that was.

            All he really knew was that the man was posing as a photo journalist. He scanned the room, looking for the blue camera bag and then stopped, feeling the familiar pang of resignation as he realized exactly who his contact was.

            He should have known.

            He let out a careful breath as he approached the man and took a seat at the empty terminal next to him. "Webb," he said softly under his breath in a tone that hovered somewhere between greeting and mere acknowledgement.

            "Rabb," Webb returned, his voice just as even. His eyes never strayed from the flat, liquid crystal screen before him.

            "It's been a long time," Harm murmured as he logged into the dummy email account he had set up before leaving the states.

            "Five years, eight months and …ten days," Webb said under his breath, "But who's counting?"

            Rabb's stomach clenched. God, he was even starting to sound like her. He waited as the computer downloaded his email from the server and the disgustingly pleasant female voice announced:

            "You've got mail."

            "Open the one marked 'Birthday wishes,'" Clay instructed, "and tell me what you see."

            Harm clicked on the email, which included a picture attachment and swore softly under his breath as he recognized the familiar airframe of a Navy P-3, surrounded by guards that were most certainly not Americans. This was followed by a series of shots taken inside the plane. The photos were grainy and of poor quality, but it was enough for Harm to be sure of what he was looking at. In one picture, several technicians in Chinese army uniforms were working diligently at a computer panel.

            He sighed and closed the email. It wasn't exactly news. Hell, he'd worked the case himself with Admiral Boone, back when he'd still been assigned to JAG. He didn't dare look at Webb, so he scowled at the monitor instead. "Don't you guys ever bother to read the newspaper? This is old news, Clay. We knew back when they grounded our bird that they were gonna go through it for everything they could get. How old are these pictures anyway? –Eight? Ten years old?"

            "They were taken last night."

            This time, Harm could not help but to look at Clay in disbelief. He recovered quickly and forced himself to look at the computer screen again. Quickly, he reopened the email. "Shit! You mean to tell me they grounded another one of ours?"

            "Worse," Clay muttered, "They built one of their own."

            Harm studied the photographs more carefully. Now that he was really looking at them, he was starting to notice small differences. The plane wasn't actually a P-3, but the airframe of a similarly constructed commercial airliner that had been modified for the purpose. And though the equipment in the interior shots was very familiar, it wasn't exact.

            "I suppose it was only a matter of time," Harm said. "When Boone and I went to negotiate for the release of the flight crew, they had technicians crawling all over it. He said at the time that the worst of the damage had already been done.

            "He was right," Clay said tersely. "They got enough to build this, and it goes operational in three days. Our man on the inside says that the Chinese are planning to test it in North Korea. You need to let your people know. –If we do face off against the North Koreans, the Chinese are going to know every move we make."

            "And they'll probably tell their little buddies," Harm added darkly.

            Clay merely nodded.

            "Christ," Harm breathed. "We'll have two battle groups completely exposed."

            "Exactly," Clay said, "Which is why I requested a meet with someone familiar with the situation. I need someone who can tell me where this thing is vulnerable. We need to take it out before it ever gets in the air."

            Harm risked a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. "You're going in yourself? Isn't that a little chancy? –You don't exactly blend."

            Clay, in typical fashion, answered the question by avoiding it. "I have to have the information by tomorrow morning."

            "You'll have it tonight," Harm promised.

            "Fair enough," Clay said.

            Harm nodded and deleted the email Clay had sent him. He really didn't want to ask, but knew if he didn't that Webb wouldn't offer, either.

            "How's Mac?"
            There was a moment's hesitation. It was still uncomfortable ground for both of them. "She's good," Clay responded, lifting his shoulder in a small shrug. "Still at JAG. –She's a Judge now, and she loves it. Admiral Sebring seems to be making a smooth transition as the new JAG, and Bud and Tiner are going at it in the courtroom." Webb's mouth quirked, "Apparently Bud lost his first case to Tiner last week. Sarah said it wasn't pretty."

            Harm grinned. "I'll bet." He paused, and then worked up the nerve to ask, "And how's Penny?"

            Clay smiled faintly. "She's four and she's beautiful. –Just like her mother."

            "I'll bet," Harm said softly, somehow managing to force the words past the hollow ache in his chest.

            "Want to see a picture?"

            Rabb shot another look at the man next to him, wanting to see the expression that went with that particular tone of voice. There had been something almost …shy… about the question.

            "Sure," Harm said.

            Webb smiled and tipped his head slightly towards Harm's monitor. "Hang on," he said, picking up his mouse and selecting a file from his screen. "Don't log out yet."

            After a moment, another email appeared in Harm's in-box. He clicked on it. This time, instead of grainy photographs of a Chinese spy plane, it was a crystal clear image of Mac, sitting in a rope swing with a grinning little girl in her lap. He was silent for a long moment as he studied the picture. That could have been his, he thought --if he hadn't been such a damned fool.

            "She's got Mac's eyes," he said softly.

            "Yeah," Clay breathed, and Rabb could tell from the longing in the word that Webb was staring at the same image on his own monitor.

            "—And your nose," Harm added, "Poor kid."

            Clay risked an irritated glance from the corner of his eye. "It wasn't that bad until I started running with the likes of you."

            "How long since you've seen them?"

            Webb's hand moved quickly over the mouse, closing the file. "Too long," he said in clipped tones. "But I finish this job and that will all change. I've been promised permanent assignment to DC as soon as this is over. I told Kershaw I'm done globe-trotting –one way or the other."

            Harm was surprised. "You actually threatened to quit?"

            Webb flashed a grim smile. "It's not like I'm in this for the money, Harm. I've done my share. –And I'm not going to make the same mistake my father did. I'd actually like to see my kid grow up."

            Webb logged out of his terminal and bent to collect his camera bag. Harm continued to stare at the picture on the screen.

            "You're a lucky man, Clay."

            He felt Webb's gaze land on him for a moment longer than was safe, considering the circumstances.

            "I know," Webb said, and vanished into the crowded street.