Thursday, July 30, 1987

6:37 p.m.

The metal cot is supported by chains that hang from the ceiling, hinged at one edge to the wall. It's hard and cold, but I don't care. I'm tired, so tired; all I want to do is escape into the blessed relief of sleep. But every time I try, it begins all over again.

Something stirs on the edges of my consciousness. My eyes pop open, and relief floods through me, palpable, almost a living thing. I smile as Lee's face fills my entire line of vision. Everything will be okay now. He's come to take me home.

"I love you, Lee," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Do you know how much I love you?"

He doesn't speak, his image dissolving into little more than a soft shimmer as he disappears. "Lee?" I call out, confused. "Lee? Where are you?"

An echoing crash draws my attention to the door. It isn't Lee, after all. It's him. It's Addi Birol.

"If he was going to answer you, Amanda, he would have by now." His voice is deeply accented. I hate the sound; it sends a chill straight through me.

As he leans closer, I can smell his breath, stale and sour. His hands stroke over my face, stop to caress my throat. "Is it sore?" he asks with a grin, as his fingers increase their pressure. "You've been screaming in your sleep."

Though my hands are bound behind my back, I somehow I manage to pull away. "I'm just a reporter for CSN," I tell him for what must be the thousandth time. "Check my credentials."

"Oh, I intend to." His hands begin to roam over me again, across my shoulders and down my sides to my hips. "I intend to check your credentials most thoroughly, Amanda."

"Amanda . . ."

"Amanda . . ."

Breathing hard, I jerked to my feet, my eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing.

"Amanda," the voice repeated again, its tone gentler now. "Are you okay?"

Startled, I looked around, blinking a few times to bring everything into focus. But instead of that sterile room with its stark white walls, there were only cubicles and desks, a telex, and a familiar eagle's profile beyond the glass doors. Sweet relief washed over me again, but this time the feeling was real.

"Let me get you a glass of water." The soothing voice spoke once more, and I suddenly realized it belonged to Beaman, of all people.

"No," I managed to choke out. "Really, Effrom, I'm fine. Everything's okay."

"Are you sure? Let me call Scare—" He stopped himself, focusing his eyes on the floor. "Francine," he finished, obviously embarrassed over his gaffe. "I could call Francine."

"No, really," I said, a little too quickly. "I'm okay. I was just working up some notes on the Anti-Terrorism Symposium and, well, I guess I drifted off."

"I see." His voice hardened as understanding dawned.

Beaman was obviously still nursing a grudge about what went down in the aftermath of the Birol incident. I suppose I really couldn't blame him. I hadn't intended to lose it like that, in front of the entire freshman class, but I just couldn't seem to help myself. I guess my nerves were still on edge at the time, my emotions fragile, too close to the surface.

Still, what happened was as much Beaman's fault as mine, and I stubbornly refused to shoulder all the blame. While his role as freshman supervisor might have given him access to my debriefing tapes, it didn't give him the right to lodge a formal protest on my behalf regarding Scarecrow's decision to use a freshman candidate as part of the strike team.

Billy had, of course, refused to file the complaint. Eventually word of the exchange had filtered down to me through the rumor mills, and I'd felt compelled to tell Beaman exactly what I thought of him, in no uncertain terms. I probably should have handled it more professionally, at least waited until we had a modicum of privacy, but he'd made me so angry I could barely see straight. Lee already felt guilty enough that he'd failed to protect me; we didn't need a desk jockey like Effrom Beaman to rub salt into both our wounds. Besides, Lee might have been the strike team leader, but my CSN front was part of the established cover; Billy had approved it.

But that was in the past now, over and forgotten. As Beaman turned to me, I arranged my face in what I hoped was a smile. "Thank you, Effrom, but I really am fine. It's just been a long day, and it's time I got out of here. Goodnight."

I shut down my station and headed out the door before he could respond. With a nod to the guard, I hurried to the elevator, my heart pounding in my chest. Despite everything, Birol's face still floated in front of me, so real I'd swear I could touch it. A violent shudder passed through me; I hadn't had a flashback of that intensity in quite some time.

The trigger was the notes on Crumwald's presentation, of course. "The New Terror: Myth or Reality?" I understood now why Francine had suddenly decided we needed those extra security cameras. Once again, I'd misjudged her. She hadn't been overbearing at all; on the contrary, she'd been surprisingly sensitive. Indeed, Crumwald had painted an all too vivid picture. Sleep deprivation, disorientation, psychotically induced terror . . . he'd brought it all crashing back. Suddenly I was there again, in that house in Maryland, staring into the soul-piercing black eyes of Addi Birol. If mere text could reduce me to such a state, I could only imagine my reaction if I'd had to hear it described in agonizing detail.

As I stepped into the elevator, I willed my hands to stop shaking. Birol couldn't hurt me now. He was in a maximum security prison, his Karbala terror squad destroyed. Breathing deeply, I mumbled the oft-repeated words of comfort. "Amanda King, you are the best, the bravest . . ." But they sounded hollow when I said them this time. Without Lee's strong arms around me, I didn't feel brave at all—only vulnerable and alone.

The doors opened onto the Georgetown foyer, and I somehow propelled myself forward. Though I had intended to leave, I found myself drawn to the familiar steps leading up to the Q-Bureau. An overpowering sensation of loneliness swept over me as I stood at the base of those stairs. I ached for Lee, deep inside, the feeling so strong it was almost physical.

Unable to stop myself, I began to climb the stairs. I don't know what I expected to accomplish, exactly. I only knew that I needed to be in a place where I could just sit and think, where I could let the memories of Lee sweep through me, if only for a little while. The Q-Bureau had been our private refuge. Though it had been reassigned, I still felt as if it belonged to us, to Scarecrow and Mrs. King. I still had my key. Just a few minutes, I told myself; no one need ever know.

But the room wasn't empty.

I heard them as soon as I opened the landing door. Little more than a blur at first, the words took on shape and form as I crept closer. It was Mr. Melrose, I realized in a flash. And he was definitely not happy.

"No matter what kind of convoluted spin you try to put on this, it's just plain wrong," Billy was saying, his voice rising to emphasize his point.

Someone laughed. "You're getting much too sentimental, Melrose. If you can't play ball with the big boys, maybe it's time we sent you back to the minor leagues."

If I'd had any doubts, that settled it. The man Billy was arguing with was definitely our own Dr. Smyth.

"There's nothing sentimental about cold hard facts," Billy countered, his words steely now. "You read that file, too. Under the circumstances, she had a need—no, a right—to know!"

"A 'right,' Billy? How quaint."

I bit my lip. Dr. Smyth was angry, too. He sounded even more coldly contemptuous than usual, if that was possible.

"I want your permission to brief her."

"Absolutely not," Smyth shot back, all pretense of joviality dropping as he finally let his anger ripple through his words. "I decide who needs to know in this outfit, Billy my boy, not you. This is a matter of national security."

"Which will not be served if my agent gets his head blown off." Billy let out a deep sigh. "You didn't see him when he left. I don't know what went down, but he could barely think straight, let alone take care of business. Even now, I can hear something in his voice. The man is stretched to the limit."

"Balderdash," Smyth snapped. "He's more than capable."

Billy evidently decided to take a different tack. "With all due respect, Dr. Smyth," he said, his tone deferential now, "I've had years of experience running field operations. He needs to be more than 'capable' to deal with this new Arbaalk threat."

"Arbaalk." The word struck a familiar chord, but I couldn't seem to place it. Shaking my head, I refocused my attention on Dr. Smyth. His words sounded strange; he must have that silly cigarette holder in his mouth.

"Don't worry, Melrose," he said, with a laugh. "If anything happens, we'll just stuff some fresh straw into the boy, that's all."

I frowned. Straw . . . Scarecrow! I should have been able to stop myself, but the words seemed to somehow leave my mouth of their own volition as I mumbled, "Oh my gosh!"

Inside the Q-Bureau, the conversation abruptly ceased. "Did you hear something?" Dr. Smyth demanded. "I thought we were supposed to be alone up here, Melrose, and . . ."

I didn't wait to hear the end of his sentence. With a speed that would have put Scarecrow to shame, I executed a quick avoidance pattern and made my escape. I could feel my heart pounding wildly again as I reached the safety of the elevator, but this time from excitement, not fear. "Arbaalk . . ."

I suddenly realized why it seemed so familiar. It was the same nonsense word I'd seen in the file Lee had been so secretive about, the one he'd been studying on that fateful night I'd tracked him to Bethesda. I closed my fingers around Francine's clearance card. At least now I had a place to start.

Feeling more hopeful than I had in weeks, I headed back to the bullpen and my computer.