Chapter Ten

GALINDEZ RESIDENCE

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

22:00 ZULU

            The insistent bleating of his cell phone roused Victor Galindez from a sound sleep and a particularly pleasant dream. Paulina stirred slightly in his arms, muttering softly. He smiled. Not all of it had been a dream, thank God.

            He pressed a kiss against her bare shoulder and savored the whisper of her warm, satin skin against his own as he reached over her to grab for the phone. He flipped open the case and paused to steal another kiss against her neck. A month away from home was too damned long, but the welcome back party had been worth it. They'd gone to bed at three o'clock and really hadn't been vertical since. He stabbed at the call button fully intending to tell whoever the hell it was to buzz off. Then maybe he'd wake up Paulina and they'd…

            "Victor?" The crisp, sharp voice fairly crackled from the phone and he stared in horror at the tiny digital screen. A pale, pinched face, framed by wisps of platinum blonde hair stared back at him, the narrow lips compressed into a thin line. Recognition dawned and he swore and scrambled for the sheets, stabbing at the privacy button as he did so. Jesus! It was Catherine Gale. And she was pissed.

            One of the analysts lent to his division from the Counter Terrorism Unit had recently described her as "cold enough to freeze the balls off a snow-man." At the time, he'd thought it a little harsh and had reprimanded the agent. But now, sitting here in his bed, naked and …cringing, he could attest to the validity of the statement.

            "Catherine!" He said, pressing the phone tightly to his ear. "What can I do for you?"

 He leaned over the edge of the bed and groped around for his boxer shorts, wondering momentarily about the particular angle the phone's tiny camera had caught when he'd answered the call. The last damned thing he needed right now was for the Agency's Chief Counsel to know she'd caught him with his pants down. –Hell, she'd caught him with his pants off. He stepped back into his boxers and reached into a dresser drawer for a clean T-shirt.

"You're working pretty late for a holiday weekend."

"You can quit trying to butter me up, Victor," Gale said tightly. "And if you want to start out on my good side, you'll explain to me exactly why the Navy is tapping us for information regarding Harmon Rabb's death."

"I was told the boss was handling it," Victor said uneasily.

Shit. He really should have talked to Clay about this some more. –At least gotten some direction about how he was supposed to handle the questions, but he hadn't. He'd been too goddamned busy telling Webb how to run his personal life, when he should have been asking how he wanted this handled at the office. Now Gale had caught him bare-assed and flat-footed and he didn't know what in the hell he was supposed to tell her.

"Wrong answer, Vic," Catherine growled. "That bureaucratic chain of command crap won't wash with me. I wrote the goddamned book on it! –Look, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt because I know you've been out of the country, but this is your one chance to be straight with me …and I suggest you do it, because right now I could be the only thing standing between you and a hearing before the intelligence oversight committee!"

Her voice shrilled out of the phone at him, hurting his ear drum. "Easy, Catherine!" he hissed.

"Don't tell me to take it easy!" She snapped. "Both you and Webb are up to your necks in this! I am not going to stand before a congressional committee and be made to look like a fool again! –I'll let the two of you rot in Federal prison, first."

Galindez closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn. It was worse than he'd realized. The Navy JAGs must be hammering at her pretty hard for her to come unglued like this. –It shouldn't have been a surprise. Knowing Mac and Bud and Bobbie, they were probably leaning pretty hard on the Navy JAG, too.

"Hang on, Catherine" he said uneasily, and cast a look back to the bed. Paulina was still asleep. He lowered his voice. "I'm not exactly in a place where I can talk about this right now. –Can I meet you somewhere?"

She named a location.

"All right," he said. "I'll see you in thirty minutes."

As Victor hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a jacket and found his car keys, he reminded himself that Catherine had good reason to be pissed. She'd gone to bat for both him and Webb more than once over the years and she had to be feeling cornered by this situation. She was caught between their friendship and her duty to protect the reputation of the Agency. Of course, there was never any question as to where she would stand. The Agency came first, no matter what. If there was even the slightest hint of wrong doing, she wouldn't hesitate to turn them over to the committee, and he wouldn't blame her a bit. Still, it was a shitty position to put her in, and he hated that it had come to this.

He couldn't blame her for being afraid of the committee. He well remembered the last time she'd been left hanging out to dry, when Merrill Watts had been asked to step down. The failures to predict the events of 9/11 and the secondary round of terrorist attacks that had occurred three years later had led to a series of hearings and investigations by the Intelligence Oversight Committee. What resulted was a brutally public laundering of organizations and people who were accustomed to living their lives beneath a cloak of secrecy. It had been a hellish experience for everyone involved. Watts had been advised not to talk to anyone outside of the committee, and Kershaw had wisely chosen to blend into the background whenever possible. As a result, Catherine had been pushed front and center as one of the main spokespersons for the Agency, and she had taken the brunt of the media flak.

Day by day, as the committee investigation revealed the full extent of the gross incompetence that had flourished in the Agency under Watts' regime, Catherine had been asked to cover for the DCI with no explanation or justification of why she should do so. The experience had left her both mentally and physically exhausted and could very well have ended her career. It was only because of Kershaw that she had managed to stay on board. The Puppet Master might put you through hell while he was yanking at your strings, but if you danced well enough for him, he took care of you afterwards. He could be a cold, calculating, double-crossing son of a bitch, but Harrison Kershaw had always taken care of his own.

Still, he had sensed the disappointment radiating from her during their brief phone conversation. She had expected better of him and Webb, and they had disappointed her. He felt the guilt begin to press down on him as he turned his black Nissan Altima down the George Washington Parkway towards the heart of the city. The fact of the matter was that he liked and respected Catherine Gale, and not telling her the truth made him feel like a worm.

It was true that she could be the cold and brittle woman that so many people took her for, but like Webb's snide, arrogant exterior, he knew that it was a façade that barely scratched the surface. Somewhere beneath that icy veneer was actually a very sweet, caring, and pretty woman. She could be smart and funny and feisty as hell, but there was a sensitive side to her that she rarely revealed inside the Agency's cool gray halls. She might have a voice that could slice you up like a pack of razor blades, but he knew that behind those cool gray eyes was a tender soul, easily wounded. She reminded him of a tiny, fluffy kitten, hissing and spitting and showing its claws: defensive, yet vulnerable. He'd always had to fight the urge to protect her, knowing she'd bust his kneecaps if he tried. It was just the odd sort of effect she had upon you, once you got to know her. –Even Webb had not been entirely immune to it.

He still vividly remembered the first time he'd ever met the Company's legal top gun. That had been back in the old days, when he was just finding his way in the Company, and Clay was trying to regain the ground he'd lost after his exile to South America. It had been at a State Department banquet, the first of many ritzy social functions he'd had to endure on behalf of the agency. He and Webb and a few other select agents and Company officials had been tapped to attend for the purposes of schmoozing senators to support the Agency's latest budget request with warnings of danger and woe from third-world countries and a little old fashioned James Bond charm.

She'd been sitting by herself at a table for six. There was something about her delicate figure and solitary expression that had caught his attention. With her small pixie face and wide gray eyes framed by delicate blonde hair, she reminded him of a lost little waif, playing Cinderella in her mother's cocktail dress and high heels. He remembered thinking it odd that such a pretty woman should still be sitting alone when all the other tables were filling up so rapidly.

"Who's that?" he had asked Artie Matthews, a fellow agent from the Berlin station.

Matthews, a tall, blonde, good-looking California jock whom Galindez was starting to suspect just might be an asshole, had spotted her and sneered with distaste.

"Catherine Gale. She's Chief Counsel for the Company," Matthews informed him, and paused to take another swig of his bourbon. "If you're thinking about getting it on with the ice pussy, Victor my boy, I'd advise you to forget it."

Galindez didn't know exactly how much of the booze Matthews had had, but it was enough that his voice was starting to carry. He could see the attorney stiffen slightly, and knew that she had overheard.

Galindez tamped down the small flame of his anger and took sip of his soda. He didn't know Matthews, he reminded himself, and he didn't know Gale. "I take it you're not a fan," he said mildly.

"I can't stand her," Matthews affirmed, his voice still too loud. "She's a ball-breaking bitch."

 "Really?" the close and unexpected proximity of Clayton Webb's voice startled both of them and Galindez looked down to find the agent standing at his side.  "Personally," Webb said, "I like Catherine very much."

Webb looked cool and casual in his Armani tux. –So much so that Galindez suddenly felt like a bumpkin standing beside him in his hundred and fifty dollar rental. Webb was holding a glass of champagne and his bow tie had been loosened slightly, giving anyone who looked at him the impression that he was somewhat in his cups. His voice, like Matthews, was louder than necessary, and crisp enough to be clearly understood from several feet away. However, Victor recognized the hard glint in the muddy green eyes and knew that Webb was far from drunk.

Matthews stared at him, dumbfounded. "Gale? Are you kidding me?"

Webb took another sip of his champagne, studying Catherine thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. "No," he said, his voice succinct. "She's a shrewd negotiator and a damned good lawyer. I've always found Catherine to possess many admirable qualities; including the one the Agency needs the most."

"And just what would that be?" Matthews asked belligerently. The rumble of conversation had died down around them, and Victor could see by the tense set of the thin shoulders that the topic of their debate was listening to every word.

Webb smiled ruthlessly. "She's a ball-breaking bitch."

There were small gasps of muffled laughter as Matthews stomped away. Clay had caught Victor's eye and tilted his head in the direction of the empty table. Hesitantly, he had followed Webb through the parting crowd to the place where the lone woman sat, cold and elegant and ramrod straight.

"May we join you?" Webb asked pleasantly, setting down his drink and pulling out a chair on Catherine's right. Victor mirrored the action, taking up a position on her left.

Her gaze bounced off of his before returning to Webb. "If you're not afraid of sitting with a ball-breaking bitch," there was an attempt at levity in her tone, but her voice was thin and taut.

Webb quirked a small smile. "Doesn't bother me," he said. "Mine are already broken. The old man saw to that."

"I heard," Catherine said and took a tiny sip of her white wine. "I'd say that I was sorry for you, but you're a big boy. You knew the rules."

"I did," Webb agreed, "and I broke them anyway, and now here I stand, duly humbled and chastened."

Catherine sighed. "Sit down, Webb." She shot a look at Galindez. "What about you? –Afraid I'll bite?"

Victor smiled and pulled out his chair. "I think I'll risk it," he said.

Webb had brusquely made the introductions. "Victor's a new recruit," he explained, settling himself into his chair.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." Victor said, offering Catherine his hand.

Her tiny fingers accepted it in a grasp that surprisingly firm. "He's so polite," she observed to Webb. "—I give him six months. The water cooler crowd will have him for breakfast."

"He's tougher than he looks," Webb said dismissively. "And he's got a decent right cross. I think he can hold his own."

Webb and Gale chatted pleasantly for several minutes. Galindez had observed them quietly, somewhat intrigued as he tried to pin down the exact nature of their relationship. Obviously they knew each other, but there seemed to be a certain testing of the waters taking place, and he wondered if they had ever actually socialized before. Somehow he doubted it. It was difficult not to stare at them openly. There was something fascinating about watching two die-hard introverts carefully trying to make …friends.

So caught up were they in their conversation, that none of them had noticed when the rugged, distinguished looking man with the fading blonde hair had approached them and dropped a gentle hand on Catherine's shoulder. Harrison Kershaw had gazed down at her with an unreadable look in his dark blue eyes.

"So, Catherine …I am given to understand that Mr. Webb has granted you a triple-B classification?"

Christ, Galindez had thought, the Deputy Director himself. –Even Webb looked decidedly uncomfortable. Catherine Gale, however, merely smiled and presented her cheek for Kershaw to kiss. "That's what he told half the room," she said pleasantly.

"Really…" Kershaw's gaze traveled to Webb and settled there for an interminably long moment. Was he imagining it, or did Webb actually look nervous?

"So what do you think, sir?" Catherine asked lightly. "Am I?"

Kershaw smiled broadly. "Catherine, my dear, I wouldn't have hired you if you weren't."

Looking back on it now, Victor wondered if that hadn't been the beginning of it. Even then, as Kershaw's glance had traveled briefly from Gale to Webb to himself, he had felt as though he and Webb were somehow being assessed and measured. That night had been the beginning of not only a longstanding friendship with Catherine Gale, but a recruitment of a sort. None of them had known it then, but Harrison Kershaw had been a man on a mission. That mission, of course was to depose Merrill Watts and salvage the Agency from self-implosion, using the three of them as the unwitting instruments of his plan.

            That simple round of social sparring had set each of them down a path which had led them to places they had never imagined, nor wanted to go. But Kershaw had sent them down it just the same, and it was that path that had led them here.

Had they known then what they knew now, he was fairly certain they never would have done it. Catherine had gone through hell during the Senate investigation hearings, and he and Clay had spent the better part of seven years traveling the globe doing Kershaw's silent bidding, ferreting out leaks …and plugging them. By the time they were done, they'd rebuilt the Company from the inside out, bureau by bureau, station by station, from one end of the world to the other. He knew the Company was better for it and maybe the world as well, but he couldn't help but feel that they'd lost something of themselves along the way. He knew it, Webb knew it, and if Catherine didn't know it by now, she was certainly going to find out soon enough.

He parked his car along Constitution Avenue, not far from the corner of the Vietnam Memorial, and locked it. Entering the footpath that cut along the edge of the Mall, he cut past the corner that descended into the depths of the black granite wall inscribed with the names of the Vietnam dead. On any other night, he might have taken it, for it was a more direct route to his ultimate destination, but he could not quite bring himself to tread that path tonight. Too many ghosts lurked there. –Or rather, only one, but it was a specter he could not quite bring himself to meet.

He walked a little farther until he came to the second footpath that ran the length of the Mall between the reflecting pool and Constitution Gardens. Glancing to make sure that he was still alone, he turned right, towards the Potomac and the end of the West end of the Mall. He hurried past the statuary garden where the Vietnam nurses waited 'til eternity for the chopper that would carry their dead and dying to salvation, and the three hardened soldiers, tired and sweaty from the heat of the battle, braced their M-16's across their shoulder's and stared down upon him with accusing eyes. They might have left their comrades behind, but at least they had never done it intentionally.

It was almost a relief when he exited the ancient grove of trees and set foot on the open street at the West edge of the Mall. Turning South, he began to scan the nearly deserted streets until at last his eye fell upon the silver BMW, parked not far from the Lincoln Memorial. The parking lights flashed once and he wasted no time in cutting across the street and making his way towards the car. Catherine Gale climbed out of the car as he approached, and locked it with a quick stab of the remote in her hand. She met him in the middle of the deserted street.

He cast an eye towards the Lincoln Memorial. A soft golden light spilled out from behind the tall Grecian pillars, illuminating the gigantic figure of Lincoln, solemn and contemplative, that resided within.

"I'm surprised you wanted to meet here," he said.

"I thought it appropriate," she said coolly, "not to mention symbolic. –Honest Abe and all that."

"Isn't it a little clichéd?"

"Apparently, so is the truth," she said tightly. "Walk with me. It's a nice night, and I just got the car washed. –I'd hate for you to dirty it with the line of bull you're about to feed me."

"Catherine…" He groaned, following after her as she stalked the rest of the way across the street, "It's not like that."

"Then why don't you tell me what it is like, Victor?" she muttered, "God knows it would be more than I've gotten out of Clay."

He rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck. "Look," he said irritably. "I haven't even been back in the country for twenty-four hours yet. I'm not even sure I know what is going on. Why don't you bring me up to speed with where things are at, and then we'll see about filling in the blanks."

She gawked at him in disbelief. "As far as I'm concerned, this whole case is nothing but blanks. That's the problem!"

He fixed her with a reproving look and finally she sighed and relented. "All right," she said at last, "I'll tell you what has happened, and what I have managed to find out, but damn it, Galindez, you'd better not be stalling me. –I expect some quid pro quo."

Actually, stalling was exactly what he intended to do, but he somehow managed to nod sincerely.

Catherine stopped and bent her head, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her gray overcoat as she studied the tips of her sensible black pumps and mentally organized her thoughts.

"Shortly after you left for Israel, I received a request from the Navy JAG for information regarding the circumstances surrounding the death of one Captain Harmon Rabb Jr." She looked up into his face, her clear gray eyes locking with his. "You can imagine my surprise, considering that I had been given to understand he was working out of Australia for Naval Intelligence at the time."

She shrugged. "So I called the JAG and asked him if there hadn't been some mistake. I'd been to Harm's funeral. Everyone had been told that he'd been killed in a small plane crash. Why were they coming to the agency for information? –We had nothing to do with it …or so I thought."

She scowled. "Admiral Leighton was good enough to inform me that according to the Navy's records, that wasn't exactly the case. Apparently Rabb's last assignment before his death had been to fly to Seoul to meet with a CIA operative regarding stolen American technology that could be used against us. He was to pass information to our people and return to Sydney. He went to Seoul. He delivered the requested information. He never came back. When he did finally show up, it was in a military casket flown in from the American Embassy with "top secret" stamped all over it and some bizarre story from the State Department attaché in Seoul about a tragic accident. –It's a small wonder that they decided to drop this hot potato on our doorstep."
            "Yeah, but why bring it up now?" Victor sighed. "It's been ten years, for Christ's sake." He was particularly proud of the delivery of that line. He thought he had used just the right amount of bewilderment.

Catherine shrugged. "It seems Rabb's brother never bought the story. Apparently he's been hounding the Navy for years, to no avail. He couldn't do a whole lot about it before, since he's a Russian citizen and lives abroad, but apparently his fortunes have changed in recent years. He started up a small air transport company in the Ukraine that has really taken off in their new capitalist economy. He finally has made enough money that he could afford to travel here, and retain a law firm here in the states."

"Mackenzie, Latham and Roberts," Victor sighed.

Catherine's eyes narrowed. "So you did read my memo," she accused.

"I glanced at it briefly," he admitted.

She shook her head. "Then I don't have to tell you how bad this is. This could get ugly, Victor."

It already has, he thought, but he didn't tell her that. "So where does it stand now?" he asked.

She tilted her chin to look up at him defiantly. "I took the information Leighton gave me and ran a records check for Rabb's name. They confirmed that Rabb was scheduled to meet with one of our teams in Seoul the week before he died. –I'm not sure I was even surprised when I saw exactly whose case he'd been called in to consult on."

"It wasn't intentional," Galindez said quickly. "In fact, if Clay had known who they were sending, he'd have requested someone else."

"Maybe he should have anyway," Catherine said bitterly. "Then he wouldn't have had to go to all this effort to avoid my phone calls." She shot him a narrow look. "Frankly I'm surprised you're here at all. What happened? Did you forget to check your caller ID?"

Yes, he thought, while somehow managing to paste a wounded look across his face. "Come on, Catherine," he protested. "You know me better than that."

God, he really had been doing this too long. When had he become such a lying son of a bitch?

"I thought I did," she said, and he caught the note of sadness in her voice. He was getting to her.

He shook his head and raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Damn it, Cath! You're not even bothering to give me the benefit of the doubt! You had me tried and convicted before I ever even picked up the damned phone. What do I have to do to show you I'm not the bad guy here?"

"Tell me what happened to Rabb."

"I can't."
            "Can't? –Or won't?" She threw up her hands. "Forget it," she said angrily. "I don't know why I even bothered!"

He bit back a curse. "Look, Catherine… I'm not trying to shut you out or set you up here. I wouldn't do that. –Neither would Clay. This is just…"

"What?"

He sighed. "Complicated," he said at last.

She scowled at him in disgust. "Complicated? –That's all you have to say for yourself? It's complicated!? –Damn it, Victor!" she hissed, "Both you and Webb are playing with fire here! The Agency isn't the same organization it was twenty years ago. You can't use it like your own personal litter box! After the 9/11 fiasco and the Watts scandal we became accountable for our actions! 'Need to Know' and 'in the interests of national security' just doesn't cut it any more."

She sighed and shook her head. "If this goes to Oversight, I can't help you." She started to turn away.

"Catherine! –Wait!" he caught her by the arm, turning her back to face him.

"It's not what you think," he said at last. "What happened to Rabb had nothing to do with the Agency."

She folded her arms across her chest. "And just what did happen to Rabb?" she demanded.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Look, it's really not my place to say, but I can tell you this much: Whatever Rabb was doing when he died, he was doing it on his own –without the knowledge or consent of either the Navy or the CIA. Yeah, he worked with us in Seoul. He got Clay the information we needed and our mission was successfully concluded.  –Before Rabb dropped out of contact with his superiors."

"And all of our records will show that? –Sealed or otherwise?"

Victor nodded.

She relaxed slightly. "Then we're in the clear. Even if it goes to trial, there's nothing to indicate any wrongdoing on the part of the Agency."

"Absolutely."

He relaxed a bit himself. Perhaps he'd finally defused her enough to buy himself some time. He had to talk to Webb, --find out how he wanted to play this. After all, Catherine was right. If this ever became public, it could be both of their asses on the line.

"Of course," Catherine said craftily, "That still doesn't explain what Rabb was doing flying around the mountains of South Korea in a private plane. –Or why his body arrived back at Pearl signed, sealed and delivered by the State Department with two Navy intelligence officers and one of Harry Kershaw's fair-haired boys along for the ride, now does it?"

Shit. She knew. He should have known. She had been really pissed on the phone, and he should have known that she wouldn't have let him get off so easily. It was one of Catherine's favorite tactics. She'd let you think you were going to get away with it, give you a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. –And then she'd hit you with the train.

To his credit, he didn't blink. Instead, he managed an indifferent shrug. "Nothing that mysterious about it," he said. "I was still in the neighborhood. I'd served with the Captain. I considered him a good friend. I thought it was the least I could do."

She arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "That's your story?"

He scowled at her in irritation. "It's the truth, Catherine." –And it was. It just wasn't all of it.

Her gray eyes searched his, and he read the disappointment in them. For all that she didn't know, she somehow had managed to dig up enough to realize that she shouldn't believe him, no matter how much she might want to.

"There's more to it than that," she insisted. "You and I both know damned well that that this whole thing stinks. The deeper Roberts and Mackenzie dig, the fishier it gets. –And they haven't even gotten to the really good stuff yet." She drew in a ragged sigh. "Who are you covering for? Is it Webb?"

He didn't answer her. He didn't dare.

"It is, isn't it?" She whispered.

He turned away. "I think this conversation is over."

This time it was she who pulled him back, her small hand clamping tightly around his wrist. "Tell me, Victor" she pleaded, "What happened out there?"

He looked down at her hand, clenched about his wrist, and slowly removed it. He looked into the soft gray eyes that begged him for the truth.

"I'm sorry, Catherine," he said quietly, and turned and walked away.

Back in the Altima, he locked the doors and closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. He rested his hands on the padded leather of the steering wheel. They were shaking. He drew a deep breath and expelled it. He couldn't believe he had so badly misjudged the entire situation. –Oversight? This had gotten completely out of hand. Hell, it was no wonder Clay was in the hospital. Another round like that and he'd see him his heart attack and raise him a stroke.

 It was stupid how such a small, simple lie, meant to bring closure and comfort, could fester and boil over the years into something so …disastrous. But maybe that was the problem, he thought. Small and simple and well-intentioned though it might have been, it had still been a lie. He had stood beside Clay at Harmon Rabb's funeral and watched the large crowd of mourners bury a body that was not Harmon Rabb.

There were days that he still wondered what might have happened if they had simply told the truth. But they hadn't. He'd told Clay, back in the hospital, that in light of the circumstances, it wasn't his place. That wasn't entirely true. The fact of the matter was he had left it up to Webb because he hadn't had the guts to do it. The trouble was Clay hadn't had the nerve, either. He supposed that he couldn't really blame him. Of the two of them, Webb had had the most to lose.  –And, while he was being perfectly honest with himself, he might as well admit that they both had been too ashamed. Himself for what he had not done …and Clay for what he had.

Catherine had accused him of covering for Webb. He supposed he could see how she had come to that conclusion. Still, there were times when he really wasn't sure who was covering for whom. Of the two of them, he often wondered if he wasn't the one who was more to blame. Clay really hadn't done any more than pick up the pieces of a disastrous situation and sweep them under the rug. It was his fault that Rabb was dead. After all, he was the one who had brought him into it.

***

(Ten years earlier…)

24 MAY 2011

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

            Webb was three days late. Victor Galindez sat uneasily in his booth in the small, seedy restaurant where they had arranged to meet and checked the messages on his palm pilot for the seventh time that day. There was nothing from Dante. Not a goddamned thing. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

            As far as they knew, the op had gone according to plan. He had arranged for the money and the explosives to be smuggled in through a Bangkok arms dealer. Clay had gone into China posing as a Dutch photographer working freelance for National Geographic, and had intended to slip the information to their North Korean asset inside a canister of film. He must have made the exchange, for there could be no doubt that the man had done the job.

            The plane had crashed 'inexplicably' on its third test flight and gone up in a huge fireball somewhere in the remote Western mountain ranges. Surveillance posts in Beijing indicated that the Chinese were pissed –and suspicious—but they had as of yet no proof of sabotage. Everything had played out beautifully.

Except that Webb was three days late.

The slim Korean woman who had waited on him returned with a steaming pot of tea and bent to refill his bowl, even though it was still hot and nearly full. Bending over his table, she spoke softly so as not to be overheard.

"The man you are looking for, he has just come in. I put him at a table near the kitchen as you instructed."

Victor thanked her softly in his rudimentary Korean and slid a few bills beneath his plate of untouched noodles. He waited a moment as she picked up the plate and the bills and departed. Then he rose from the table and sauntered towards the kitchen.

He stunned Benny Kwan with a lightning blow to the head as he passed, then grabbed the man by the shirt collar and drug him through the grease stained swinging doors of the kitchen. Kwan tried for a kick, but Galindez blocked it, sweeping the smaller man's feet from under him. Reaching down, he grabbed Kwan by the scruff of the neck and slammed him face first into the wall, jarring the large steel woks that hung upon it with an awful clatter.

"Where is he?" Galindez demanded, shaking the smaller man like a terrier worrying a rat. "Where is he, Benny? –And don't give me any bullshit, you slimy little prick, or I'll gut you and roast you and serve you on a stick out in the street like the monkeys and dogs."

"I don't know!" Kwan gasped, "I don't know! –I swear to God!"

Galindez kneed him in the groin, causing Kwan to double up in pain.

"A lying little shit like you doesn't believe in God, Benny. And I don't believe you. You went out with him, and you were supposed to bring him back! –Now where in the hell is he?"

"I don't know," Kwan whined. His breath was coming in wheezing sobs. "I don't know! He didn't make it!"

Victor felt the cold slither of dread work its way down his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach, but he didn't dare acknowledge it. He leaned on Benny harder.

"Is he dead?" he asked, "Did they kill him?"

Benny shook his head. He was sobbing openly now. "No. –I don't know. He didn't make it out. They got him. –I don't know where they took him…

"They surprised us," Kwan gasped, "just as we were trying to come back across the river. They shot him –in the leg I think—I didn't see. I only barely got away."

Victor slammed Benny up against the wall again. "Who got him, Benny? The Army? The Border Patrol?"

"No," Benny gasped. "It was the Secret Police."

Christ. Galindez released the man, letting him fall to the floor in a heap. --The North Korean Secret Police. It might have been better if Webb had been dead.

He had contacted the Seoul Station Chief immediately, and learned through their counterparts in the State Department that there were no reports of any journalists being openly detained by the North Koreans. –Not that that helped a lot, Victor thought. For one thing, Clay's cover was Dutch, not American. And for another, if the North Koreans were detaining any European prisoners, they sure as hell weren't going to be very likely to come right out and announce it.

He also had the presence of mind to call the Beijing Station Chief and give him a run down of the latest developments on the odd chance that if the North Koreans thought they had an American spy in custody, they would be sure to hold it up to the Chinese as a sign they were doing their part to find out what had happened to China's very expensive, P-3 replica.

Finally, and reluctantly, he called Washington.

The response was exactly what he had expected. –Even after he had managed to argue his way up through the chain of command to the desk of the Deputy Director himself.

"The op is a success and we have plausible deniability." Harrison Kershaw's tone had been brisk and uncompromising. "We won't if we keep digging after a lost photojournalist."

"I want to go after him."

"This isn't the Marine Corps, Mr. Galindez." Kershaw said sharply. "Webb knew the risks, and he took them. It's likely a waste of time any way. If the North Koreans haven't already done the job by now, he's probably already done it for them. He knows we won't come after him."

But he knows I'll come after him, Galindez thought, but he knew it was useless to argue with the Deputy Director.

Kershaw sighed. "I'll see about contacting his family."

"No!" Galindez said sharply, and then suddenly remembered exactly who he was speaking to. "Excuse me sir, I'm sorry. –But I'd just… I'd rather tell them myself, if that's all right. I think it would be better coming from me."

There was a long moment of silence.

"All right," Kershaw said. "I imagine the bad news will keep a little while longer. It will take you thirty six hours to get back here to D.C. I'll give you forty-eight. …Use them wisely, Mr. Galindez."

Shit, Victor thought, he knows. He knows what I'm going to do. It's his way of saying get my ass back to D.C. with the Agency's blessing or go it alone …and don't fuck up because nobody else is coming after me.

He had stood there a long moment in his hotel room with his hand still on the phone and his eyes on the empty suitcases in the closet. Going home was not an option. It never really had been. Even if he could have worked up the stomach to leave, he never could have stood to face Mac and tell her. Besides, Webb had gone back to save his neck once in a situation not too different from this one and damned near died because of it. He owed it to him –to them—to at least try. But he couldn't do it alone.

Victor paced the room, his mind kicking into overdrive. Kershaw had made it plain that Agency resources were going to dry up from here on out. He needed intel. He needed back up. –And he could only think of one person who just might be near enough to help.

Whether or not he would be willing, was another matter entirely.

***

"Who's this, your house boy?"

Galindez tossed an amused glance at the skinny kid that had opened the door of the hotel room.

"He would be if I had a house," Rabb said, and waved Victor towards a chair. "You've been working with Webb too long," he observed.

"What makes you say that?"

"You're starting to develop his sarcasm." Rabb peeled off a couple of bills and handed them to the kid. "Hey, Kim, why don't you go downstairs and see if you can find us a couple of cold beers, ok?"

"OK, Joe." The boy parroted, and fled with the money.

Galindez raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what you call contributing to the delinquency of a minor?"

Harm chuckled. "You should be more worried about the kid contributing to the delinquency of me. My first night in town, he offered to fix me up with a stolen car, a hooker and my choice of recreational pharmaceuticals."

Galindez's brow arched higher. "You take him up on it?"

Rabb snorted. "I'm afraid to. The kid's better connected than half the mob bosses in Jersey."

"Speaking of connections…" Galindez prompted.

Harm nodded. "I found what you were looking for," he said.

He pulled an aluminum briefcase down from the top shelf of his closet and unlocked it, extracting several satellite images printed on glossy photo paper.

"Based on what you got out of Webb's driver, I'd say odds are pretty good he's being held here." Rabb's finger swirled over a small cluster or rectangular dots that Victor vaguely recognized as huts and low buildings. "It's a prison camp located just outside of a village called Wol-song-ni. It's on the Taedong River, about forty miles north of the DMZ. The North Korean General in charge of that quadrant uses it as his headquarters, and the Secret Police carry out most of their interrogations there."

Rabb pulled out two more photos and a magnifying loop. "I pulled these down off of the DOD satellite archives last night. They were taken the same day Webb disappeared."

He handed Galindez the photos and the loop. "Look in the back of the Humvee," he instructed.

Galindez looked closely at the aerial photograph. "A camera bag," he said.

"Webb's camera bag," Rabb corrected. "I remember all of the stickers and press passes it had on it. It was one of the things I was told to look for to identify my 'contact' at the internet café."

Galindez looked up at Rabb. "So how do we get in?"

"We don't," Harm replied. "The place is locked up tighter than a drum. Even a Seal Team would have their work cut out for them. –Besides, even if we had the man power, it would cost a fortune to get the right equipment."

"I've got the fortune," Galindez said. "Or rather, I can get it."

"What?"

Galindez shrugged. "You know Webb. –He's not your average working stiff like the rest of us. In fact, he's a pretty shrewd investor. A few years ago he set us up with a private emergency fund –just in case the company left us hanging out to dry."

"How much?"

Galindez thought about it. "Not a huge amount, maybe a million dollars or so."

Harm let out a low whistle. He'd always known Webb came from old money, but he didn't realize he had quite that much in loose pocket change lying around. But on the other hand, Webb wasn't exactly the type to flaunt it, either.

Rabb considered the possibilities for a long moment. "There might be another way," he said.

Galindez raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"From what I've seen of the intel on the North Koreans, they may shout communist propaganda from the rooftops, but they're just as interested in making money as the next guy. The Black Market runs rampant through there: drugs, guns, stolen merchandise… They'll deal in just about anything, --why not a man's freedom?"

Galindez stared at him in amazement. "You really think you can ransom him out?"

Rabb shrugged. "Why not? American Corporations do it all the time."

"Damn," Galindez said, "It could work, but I wish we had more time. This isn't my town. I've been working out of Bangkok. I wouldn't even know where to start."

He heard the soft sound of the door opening and closing behind them as Kim appeared with the cold beers. Harm paused and his gaze fell speculatively on the boy.

"All we really need," he said, "is someone with connections."