Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 63

Five Days, Nine Hours, Fifty-Six Minutes

Olga Vukavitch sat at the table, the materials provided by the Washington DC police, the Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Administration, and Great Britain's Ministry of Intelligence. With the wealth of material, she was convinced that every sane nation in the world maintained a 'file-in-progress' on Richard DeMarco. The man, she concluded, was nefarious. He had, literally, hundreds of known aliases that he used in specific parts of the world. He was directly responsible, as best she could count, for over two hundred terrorism-related deaths in thirty-seven countries, but he claimed responsibility for, astonishingly, thousands more. Wherever a splinter group or terror faction had sprung up to perform deeds against democratic interests, DeMarco established ties. True, he may not have been involved with all of the events he claimed participation, but his reputation certainly gave him the credentials and the credibility to feign involvement. She wasn't certain what Bradley Talmadge wanted her to learn any longer; if it involved death, there was some kind of cosmic connection – however remote – back to Richard DeMarco, and the immeasurable possibilities frightened her.

However, despite the mountain of evidence to show the man's pure villainy, Olga found him a man with only mysterious origins. She couldn't find – nor could any intelligence bureau – any documentation supporting the man's birth. It was as if one day he merely sprang into existence. Though there was some evidence linking his mother to a woman in Saudi Arabia, there wasn't any conclusive proof that even she had lived there. Olga was quite certain – as was the CIA – that DeMarco claimed the country of Jordan as his homeland, but, again, it was a claim that couldn't be reasonable substantiated or reasonable disproved. Also, DeMarco was linked to a group of American nationals who apparently coordinated a terror network against their own country – gunrunners, drug dealers, sex merchants, and the like – but any person who had come forward with a provable link back to DeMarco always died under 'curious circumstances.'

Richard DeMarco had as interesting a way with life as he did with death, and Olga decided that there was little to be learned in spending any more time investing in the files. Slowly, she closed the binder from the NSA and brushed it back into the disheveled stack.

Almost on cue, the door opened. Channing Michelson – the love of her life – walked in.

"What's the matter?" he asked, sighting her listless expression. "Have you run out of stuff to read?"

"Yes," she agreed, "voluntarily."

"Have you learned anything new?"

She rolled her eyes, placed her forehead on her forearm, and pressed her head to the table, trying hard to stifle an oncoming headache. "There's plenty of information available on Richard DeMarco, but much of it avoids sound conclusions ... mostly because there are no sound conclusions available. He's the perfect mystery man. He's killed people in over three dozen countries, and ... oh, I'll save the rest for our next mission briefing. I wouldn't want to have to repeat myself."

He prodded the stack of material with a curious finger. "I understand. Keep it to yourself ... like you always do."

Lifting her forehead, she fixed her eyes on him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dismissing the question, he frowned. "Nothing ... really." He jerked his thumb in the air over his shoulder. "Look, Bradley has given us the green light to head over to the White House. Parker has finished his stint with the Mallathorn, and I guess he's called for some big conference with the President. It's a team debriefing, so let's pack it up."

Still glaring at him, she tried, "You're not going to get out of this that easily, Channing."

"Olga, we don't have time for this."

"And you act as if that's my fault."

"No," he insisted. "I don't. It's ... well ... it's all our fault."

"But you didn't say that," she challenged, finally sitting up in the chair and facing him. "You accused me of keeping things to myself, and yet you stand here unwilling to explain what you meant by it."

"You know what I meant," he accused her.

"No, I don't."

"I meant Frank Parker!"

Suddenly, they grew silent. It was the topic they had begun to discuss two days ago – when this entire affair began – and she thought they had agreed to table the debate until a better place and time. Apparently, Channing had grown uneasy with that decision, and now he was directing his frustration at her.

"Channing," she tried softly, "we talked about this. What happened between Frank and I ... that is 'old news.' I can't do anything to change it, and I'm not looking to do anything to change it today."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"Which means that I really wish that I didn't have to keep making excuses for your jealousy."

"Jealousy?" The man acted as if she had picked up one of the heavy volumes of intelligence from the table and smacked him across the back of his head. He bobbed away from her, turning in the direction of the door. "If that's what you think it is, then you don't understand me as well as I thought you did."

"Then why don't you stop behaving like a fifteen-year-old and tell me what it is I don't understand?"

He stopped but didn't turn to face her.

"You loved him ... a few years ago," he told her.

"Yes," she agreed. "In one sense of the word, I did."

Shuffling his feet, he added, "Love – as you and I have talked – is not an emotion that's easily dismissed."

"I'm not looking to dismiss any feelings I had for Frank," she argued gently. "What I'm looking for is a man to acknowledge that those feelings are a part of my past. I can't hide them. I can't erase them. But, Channing, that doesn't mean I'm going to act on them. I've told you. I won't. I don't need to. I have you in my life, and I couldn't be happier."

Easily, she rose from the chair. She walked around him and positioned herself directly in front, blocking his exit from the room should he decide to bolt.

"Channing, I love you," she said, reaching out and taking his warm hands in hers. "Frank cannot come between you and me. Frank cannot erase the feelings that I have for you. He doesn't intend to, and, if this Frank Parker is the man who I loved previously, then he would understand me well enough to know that it would be a complete waste of his time to try." Tilting her head slightly, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. "The Channing that I know today would accept my love as it is, and he wouldn't expect me to do anything more than give him my love ... not prove it to him."

The chrononaut sighed. He wasn't certain of what to say, of how to respond. He knew that, of all possible scenarios to make him question her commitment to him, there was very little likelihood of the present variation – the return of a dead man from the past – would ever happen again. But what if Frank Parker was stuck here? What if there was no need for him to disappear into some uncharted future or some undreamed of parallel world? What if he stayed on with the BackStep Program? If Parker was the better time traveler, what place would there be for him in the project? What place would there be for him in Olga's daily life?

He shook his head.

"I hear what you're saying," he tried, "but – until this thing is over – I don't think I can find any peace, Olga."

Slowly, she nodded.

"Then ... for the time being ... let's not concentrate on us," she offered the only truce she could imagine.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I can't keep having this conversation, Channing," she tried softly. "As much as I love you, I don't want to argue with you. I'll be here for you ... when this is all over. You'll see. But, until it is, let's put all of our effort into doing our jobs. Okay?"

He studied her dark eyes and her warm lips. Suddenly overcome with the desire to touch her, he closed his eyes, trying to block out any romantic thoughts.

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You have to," she said. "I'm not giving you any options. You can either love me ... now and whenever ... or you do your job, and you love me once we can put all of this behind us."

He realized that he didn't have any other argument.

"If that's what we have to do," he agreed, "then we'll have to do it."

"Okay."

She let go of his hand and gave him another quick kiss on the lips. When they parted, she left a dab of moisture, of her lipstick, there on his mouth. He reached up, smiling, and started to wipe it away.

"No," she tried with a wicked smile. "Leave it ... just to give you something to remember what you're missing in the meantime."

END of Chapter 63