Disclaimer and such: Check Prelude

A/N. As usual, the first word goes to my reviewers: ranma8962, Ginger6, pretender-gurl, Bec-Bec, pretender fan, Ann, michelle, imag1ne and leochick, once again, thanks for taking the time to read and review. I sound like a broken record, but I really appreciate it.

Now the warning: I'm not a pilot and unfortunately I've never been to Morocco so I don't know either the route followed by planes flying there, nor how the authorities keep watch on their coasts. I apologize for any and all mistakes related to my lack of knowledge.

Special mention to my twin and intellectual partner in crime: Thanks.

Chapter Three

And so the conversation slips.

"Poor Ofelia. Divided from herself and her fair judgment…"- Hamlet. Act 4, Ac 5.

"Took you long enough"

"Precautions"

As words were being exchanged, Parker ambled towards the well equipped mini bar. Opening a medium size bottle of Scotch, she filled a glass with the amber liquid and took a sip.

"Hmmm, heard what happened to my poor twit of a brother. Not too bad, genius. Not too bad."

The two people in the room shared similar small smiles and for a split second forgot about the smothering tension that surrounded them. Taking advantage of that moment of respite, Parker moved away from the bar, filled glass in hand, and went to sit by the headboard of the bed, shoving aside a pillow. When she was finally settled, she restarted the conversation.

"So. Are we gonna play twenty questions or are you gonna tell me where the hell you've been".

Hearing her words, Jarod leant his backside against the window and pondered whether he should have just called her instead. As much as he'd like to argue to the contrary, and despite the planning that had gone into making it happen, this whole meeting had been set on impulse. When he'd first found the information, he'd decided he wanted to tell her in person. But here and now, the pretender was seriously considering if a call wouldn't have done the job better.

"Morocco".

"Morocco", Parker repeated. The voices in her head had gone silent and oddly enough, that wasn't helping her anxiousness in the least. "I thought you were looking for you mother".

He nodded. "I…There was a lead on my mother I wanted to follow".

"Did you find her?"

"She was gone before I got to her"

"I'm sorry".

He felt the sympathy that her voice carried and in that instant decided that the trip had been a good choice. With a deep breath he continued.

"I found the lead on my mother when I hacked into the computer of the man the Triumvirate sent to the Centre to revise procedures".

"Bekele?" The Zulu had been in Blue Cove for two weeks, just itching to give someone a T-board. Parker and her team had escaped him only thanks to Jarod's express mail obsession.

"I wanted to know what they were up to, why they'd sent him all the way here."

"Overseeing. With Adama's murder the Triumvirate…"

"I know", he intervened. "I know. However, as I was snooping around his files, I found some unclear information about a search that they, the Triumvirate, had going on; a search that my mother was supposedly putting in danger, so I went to check it out. I wasn't able to catch up to my mother, but the search they were conducting… it was the scrolls, Parker. They were looking for the scrolls. Triumvirate officials were convinced that they should be somewhere along the North-eastern Moroccan coastline. When I arrived five weeks ago, scouts had been deployed along that territory, from Safi to Tarfaya.

"But how did they… " Parker was suddenly very cold. Missing pieces were falling loudly into place. "My father?"

"Your father's body surfaced six miles off the Agadir coast. A coast guard patrol got him out of the water approximately eighteen days after our emergency landing. The Triumvirate must have been on seeking news of him because as soon as the body reached the local morgue, they sent someone there identify and claim him, and then… take care of his remains."

She wanted to laugh. Take care. Dispose…. They'd probably chopped him and fed the pieces to rabid dogs. She didn't laugh, though. Instead, Parker felt like she might cry; shoot something and then cry. It was absurd, she was sure, that she had any feelings regarding the dead body's recovery. It was the body of a man who'd lied to her, who'd played a stellar part in destroying her life, her mother's life; a man she'd spent a lifetime trying to impress, for whose affection she'd gone to hell and bargained with the devil. A despicable man. Her father.

Lost as to how to deal with the latest developments, Parker responded the way she knew best: She raged.

"So you didn't get your mother". She was met with silence, which she took as an invitation to rant on.

"Did you find the scrolls?"

Again silence.

"Well, what did you find besides the death certificate of a long dead man?" Her voice was dangerously low and her tone nothing if not threatening. "Mr. Parker's dead. No kidding, genius. He jumped out of a plane. What the hell were you expecting? "

Taking a long gulp of her scotch, Parker tried to focus. Her father was dead. Really dead. No Centre style comebacks this time. Sure there had been a funeral for him after Carthis, but then the coffin had been empty. And though the generally accepted version was that Mr. Parker had indeed left for good, his daughter had held into a very thin thread of hope -or denial. Jarod had just cut that thread unceremoniously and now she felt miserably alone.

"Remind me", the tirade continued after a pause. "Why am I not bringing you in tonight? God knows I should. You drag me up here to the great white north with the sole purpose of delivering old news. A complete waste of my time, not to mention my money, and all because you were too bored with the season and got the urge to put up your own damn show. I do wonder though, are you helping some homeless dog find a purpose while we're here or was this all just for my benefit?

The pretender noted his huntress's unwavering glare and began to assess the situation. Suddenly his back left the window and he directed himself to the mini bar.

"I am talking to you! Are you deaf?".

Jarod didn't heed her. He grabbed the previously opened bottle and after approaching the bed, presented it to her with a silent motion. Surprised by the gesture Parker gave him a look that was equal parts confusion and ire, but since her glass had dried up, she settled on huffing her discontent and snatching the offering from the pretender's hands.

A moment and a long draught of scotch later, Parker's rage had somewhat dwindled allowing some questions to begin gnawing at her. One she couldn't hold any longer.

"Does Raines know?"

"No. They seem to be handling this internally".

Oh, well, Parker figured. At least there was still some drama that her new biological father hadn't had a hand in; she'd probably have to thank him for that later. In an effort to dissolve her bitterness, she raised her eyes to look at the pretender standing next to her bed. At first she was surprised that Jarod's appearance didn't differ much from how she felt. But then she remembered the beginning of their conversation, and his grimness made sense in her head.

"When did you get back?"

Jarod eyed the woman in the bed carefully for a few seconds before quietly next to her and finally answering her question. "Last week. I would have called you earlier, but - "

"Precautions", Parker finished for him and got a nod in return. A beat later she continued. "I'm sorry about your mother, Jarod. But I'm sure you'll find her again. It's probably just a matter of time". At the end of her speech, she extended her hand passing the scotch to her companion. He accepted the gesture but didn't drink.

"I'm sorry about your father" Jarod returned after a while.

"No, you're not….It's fine." It was common knowledge that Mr. Parker and the elusive pretender had never made each other's Christmas's lists, for glaringly obvious reasons.

"I mean it". Parker smiled sadly, knowing that he did, in a way. Letting a few minutes slip by unnoticed, she took a deep breath and switched the subject.

"You know? You still haven't told me what happened to the scrolls? Did they find them?"

"Not by the Triumvirate but they were found. I did some tracking and discovered a trail leading to a not so respectable antique dealer. I actually tried to negotiate with the man, but some other buyer offered twice our agreed price so he sold them off, just as I was on my way to see him".

"Who would have thought that ancient curses were so well liked these days…How much is our future worth?"

"It was sold for a hundred and fifty grand. Anyway, it's probably our good luck that the buyer wasn't some museum man or historian collector. When last I checked, they were still floating around in the black market: nobody is sure of what they are and all the crazy book dealers want them for their collectors, but no one knows where they are at the moment".

Parker couldn't help but chuckle. "Gotta love the irony."

Jarod agreed forlornly. It was ironic: their lives were literally floating around the black market, being sold to the highest bidder. Not much of a change there, he thought. Studying the bottle in his hands, he focused on the dark green-colored glass the way a clairvoyant does on a crystal ball, ignoring the fact that he was being studied in the same manner at the same time. In the tired profile of the man sitting next to her, Parker could see her own frustration, her loneliness, the un-admitted desire of giving up on the world for a while. The pretender turned to face her and in a sudden impulse, she leant forward, forgetting everything she'd ever known about logical thinking. Parker knew it was dangerous and she knew it was wrong, but at the moment she didn't want to give a damn about anything. So she didn't.

The kiss was neither erotic nor innocent. It was rather sensual, an invitation, only long enough not to be mistaken for the wrong intention. In a matter of seconds, their actions grew more demanding, and Jarod couldn't keep his hands from tugging at the silk that covered Parker's body. His overactive mind was racing, yelling at him in tongues that he should stop. Just stop. But he was tired and she was warm, and even if he had to give up his head in the morning, he didn't want to stop right now.

So he didn't.

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A/N2. Theoretically, a dead body takes 10-14 days to resurface from the Thames in the months of November-December but taking into account the ocean water temperature, I decided to give him a bit more time (even if morocco is a bit warmer that time of the year). I'm also counting on the fact that Mr. Parker was killed in the fall and thus got no chance to open his parachute. I mean, considering his age, and the cruise speed and altitude of an intercontinental flight, I think it's a strong possibility. However, I could be absolutely wrong so if there are any pilots/cops/doctors/forensic specialists among you, I'd be more than happy to you're your thoughts. All feedback is welcome. =)