CHAPTER 3
Amanda perched on the edge of a leather armchair, facing the serious dark eyes of William Melrose. Behind her, she could hear a faint rustle of fabric and rhythmic, slightly squishy, footsteps. Long strides navigated a tight circuit along the paneled wall, pausing periodically at the blind-shaded window before resuming their endless cycle. Even with her back to him, she could feel the restless energy radiating from the agitated intelligence operative. How did Mr. Melrose put up with these high-strung antics on a daily basis? She'd been sitting in the Field Section chief's office for less than an thirty minutes, and Lee Stetson was driving her crazy!
As though reading her thoughts, the older man's gaze drifted over her shoulder, and he shot a look of mingled reproach and appeal at the pacing agent. "Sit down, Scarecrow. You're wearing a path in the carpet."
Amanda refused to glance in Lee's direction as his movements slowed. After a moment, she heard the soft creak of well-worn upholstery as he dropped into the chair to her right, muttering an incoherent sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Still miffed by his earlier, totally overbearing, treatment, she folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. Gritting her teeth, she determined to ignore his childish display of pique.
What right did he have to be angry? She was the one who should be furious! She had been on a public sidewalk, minding her own business, when a perfect stranger had fallen at her feet. Did she step around him and continue on her way? Did she join the useless throng of gaping spectators? No! She tried to do the right thing; she stopped to help.
And what was the reward for her selfless conduct?
Lee Stetson kicked over her shopping bag, spilling her soup and turning her carefully typed resumes into a sodden, unsalvageable mess. He berated her for being in the way when she tried to apply her first-aid skills to the stricken man ---and then rebuked her for not assisting him when she attempted to edge away from the hectic scene. He practically dragged her, without so much as a "please," off the street and into the secretive, underground world of the Agency. Then, as soon as they arrived in the glass-enclosed bullpen, he began, inexplicably, to rant that she shouldn't be involved in Agency business. Finally, after losing a ridiculous argument with Mr. Melrose over her unwanted presence in a place to which he had brought her, he retreated into a bad-tempered pout.
That was over an hour ago. A flurry of frenzied activity followed, during which she was elbowed and jostled and finally shuffled aside as though she were an inconveniently placed plant stand.
At Mr. Melrose's brisk "Listen up, people!" the calm buzzing of the Agency Field Section fell silent before erupting into organized chaos. From her vantage point, squeezed against a wall between a file cabinet and an unoccupied desk, she watched Mr. Melrose bark out instructions. Half a dozen agents snapped to attention, listening to the clipped, terse orders with intense expressions and furrowed brows. Some then rushed to their phones or computer terminals. Others hurried through the bullpen doors and past the military guard, disappearing down the wide hallway.
Apparently satisfied with the activities he had set in motion, Mr. Melrose vanished into his inner sanctum. Lee followed with dragging feet, drooping shoulders and a deep scowl. Neither so much as glanced in her direction.
Uncertain what was expected of her, as she was neither given a specific assignment nor escorted back to the Georgetown foyer, Amanda pulled out an empty chair and waited. No one paid the slightest heed to the disgruntled civilian as she witnessed, firsthand, the inner-workings of the top secret government organization.
Minute after minute ticked slowly by. She was on the point of knocking on the closed door and asking permission to go home when Mr. Melrose finally reappeared. He ushered her, politely but firmly, into his office and peppered her with increasingly pointless questions. How was she expected to know the name of Muriel Cannelli's primary physician . . . and how could national security possibly be impacted by the ingredients in her chicken soup recipe? It didn't escaped her notice, during this baffling and irritating interrogation, that all of her own, perfectly reasonable, inquiries were either sidestepped or ignored.
Inquiries such as . . . what happened to the sick man?
As if in answer to her unspoken query, there was a light, cursory knock on the office door. Before Mr. Melrose had a chance to respond, It swung open to admit Francine Desmond. The blonde agent managed to project both brisk efficiency and opulent elegance. Although burdened with a stack of files and a roll of what appeared to be blueprint paper, she moved as though she were a fashion model, gliding down a Paris runway. Her tailored suit, deep cerulean blue shot with silver threads, had the style and detail of a designer original, and only practice and determination could allow her to balance with such fluid grace on the matching spiked heels.
Amanda ran her fingers down the front of her homemade pink skirt, trying to smooth the wrinkles and straighten the neatly set pleats. Glancing briefly down at her scuffed, beige shoes, she scooted her feet further under the chair. Her natural self-confidence rallied quickly, however, and she sat up straighter, squaring her shoulders. Her brief admiration for Ms. Desmond had already withered under the icy disdain in those clear, blue eyes. She wasn't going to allow herself to be intimidated by the material trappings of a professional snob.
She fidgeted silently as the section chief perused the files Francine had deposited on his desk. The man to her right didn't have nearly her restraint.
"Well?" Lee blurted the question as Mr. Melrose slapped the last folder closed.
"It'll take a few weeks for the pathologist to receive the results of the toxicology studies, but he's issued his preliminary findings. The cause of death appears to be a massive abdominal aneurysm."
Amanda gasped involuntarily as Mr. Melrose gave the matter-of-fact report. "You mean that poor man is dead?"
Lee pivoted toward her, half rising from his chair as his voice amplified almost to a shout. "That POOR man was a Russian agent. He was also our only link to the HTK interceptor technology stolen last week from --" Biting off his outburst, he sank back onto the worn leather, raking one hand through his hair.
Before Amanda could decide between the half dozen questions swirling in her mind, Mr. Melrose turned a calm glare at his top agent. "Don't take your frustration out on Mrs. King, Lee. She had nothing to do with this; she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Excuse me, Billy, but now that we know for certain that she wasn't responsible for the courier's collapse --" Francine cut in, arching a sculpted brow as she directed a smile of pedantic hauteur over Amanda's right shoulder. "Not that I truly suspected you, dear. Imagining you taking out a Russian courier would be like . . ." She paused to give a practiced toss of her tastefully coifed head, ". . . expecting to find 'Coq Au Vin with Truffles' on the menu of the local Quickie Chickie Snack Shack."
Mr. Melrose rolled his eyes. He apparently was accustomed to his assistant's acerbic manner and sharp tongue. "Get to the point, Francine."
"I just meant to say that we've wasted enough of Mrs. King's valuable time," Francine said with a patronizing shrug. "She probably has a dozen little housewifey things to do . . . cleaning windows, waxing floors, starching shirts . . . ."
Amanda bristled at the blatant condescension. Although, five minutes earlier, she had been mentally bemoaning the number of unfinished errands on her day's to-do-list, she was assailed by a stubborn determination to sit here until she found out what was going on. Maybe she could even help. She'd get a thank-you from Lee Stetson for her contributions to the Agency if it was the last thing she ever did!
"Actually, Francine," said Mr. Melrose, folding his hands on his desktop as he leaned slightly toward Amanda, "I was thinking that Mrs. King might be able to help us."
"Bil - ly." Lee drew out the word in protest before lapsing again into silence.
"Now, look here, you two." Mr. Melrose cast a stern look at his two operatives. "This case is alpha priority, and I have every agent I can spare on it. But we simply don't have the manpower to blanket the entire D.C. area, looking for a meet that could happen any time in the next ten hours, between two or more parties unknown." He stopped to allow his words to sink in before continuing. "We still don't have a positive ID on our courier, and Mrs. King did see the man. If she can sift through the photo archive, I won't have to put Duffy or Grayson or --" his steady gaze locked on Lee, "you on it, Scarecrow."
Peeking sideways at the derisive expression on Francine's face and the appalled one on Lee's, Amanda allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "What would you like me to do, sir?"
"Look through some photos of known Soviet operatives and see whether we can come up with a name to match this face." Mr. Melrose selected a photograph from one of the folders and held it up by one corner. The picture had clearly been taken just before the dead man's autopsy. Only dark hair and a still face were visible, rimmed above and below by white sheets. The features were slightly bloated, the skin tone mottled gray, the eyes closed.
Amanda repressed a shudder as she gingerly accepted the photo; she'd never seen a close-up of a corpse. "Sir . . . what good will it do to identify him? You said he's dead."
Francine's lips curled in a supercilious smirk, and she opened her mouth only to be headed off with another warning from her boss.
"Can it, Francine. Mrs. King asked a perfectly logical question." Billy stretched to pick up a coffee mug from the corner of his desk. After frowning down at the murky contents, he wrinkled his nose in distaste and set it back in its original position. "It might not do any good . . . but the Russian government is a lot like ours in some ways. There are several different agencies which could be involved in any covert operation. If we can identify the man who died this afternoon and can place him in a particular department, we'll be able to narrow the list of other couriers who might be working on this acquisition."
Neither of the two agents appeared to be satisfied, but before they could raise further objections, Mr. Melrose's gaze drifted toward the clock, and he put up one hand, palm outward, in the universal gesture for "stop." Shooting another warning glance at Lee and Francine, he spoke with quiet authority. "Ernie's doing live airport surveillance; we've set up a print photo library in conference room two. Scarecrow will get you started, Mrs. King, and he'll answer any questions you may have." Rising in an unmistakable signal of dismissal, he slipped a rumpled jacket from the back of his chair and started around his desk. Pausing mid-stride, he stepped back and took a half-empty bottle of Tums from his desktop, dropping it into his pocket. "If anyone needs me, I'll be downstairs, briefing the top brass on our progress."
"Or lack of progress," Lee muttered morosely as the door slammed closed behind his section chief.