CHAPTER 5

Amanda pulled the station wagon into its usual spot on the leaf-shaded driveway and pushed the gear shift into "park." After switching off the ignition, she leaned back in her seat, enjoying a rare interval of relaxation.

The Virginia landscape had begun its annual metamorphosis, the luxuriant foliage of summer replaced by the vivid red and gold of autumn. The houses and yards of her neighborhood, bathed in the aureate glow of late afternoon sunshine, resonated with the sounds of normalcy: the chirp of songbirds as they prepared for their southern journeys, the bark of dogs as they greeted returning members of their families, the laughter of children as they enjoyed a final few minutes of play before dinner. From the house next door, little Bobby Kenwood's piano lesson provided musical accompaniment, the harmony interrupted now and then by a jarringly off-key note, and somewhere in the distance the low rumble of a lawnmower attested to the industry of at least one of her neighbors. Yet the atmosphere of the suburbs seemed soothing and peaceful after her afternoon at the Agency.

It had been an extraordinary day. Well, perhaps not extraordinary, she corrected herself. Flying a helicopter . . . being held at gunpoint in the upper offices of Connie Beth Cosmetic headquarters . . . those things were extraordinary. In contrast, having a Russian spy fall dead at her feet and spending the afternoon looking at photographs of counterintelligence agents seemed almost tame. Still, compared to days spent doing nothing more exciting than helping her sons practice spelling, there was a certain intrigue to helping protect her country from foreign powers.

Today, she had done something that might really make a difference in the world. It had taken her nearly two hours, but she made a positive identification of the deceased Russian. He was Dominic Gregornoff, a midlevel operative with the KGB who once spent six months in D.C. as a diplomatic attaché. Thankfully, his file contained enough information on his recent activities to put together a list of other couriers who might be involved in the HTK acquisition.

Even her job search wasn't a total loss. After she dumped her tattered, stained shopping bag and soggy resumes into a waste basket in the Field Section bullpen, Mr. Melrose gave her a sheaf of fresh typing paper and the promise of part-time transcription work for the Agency until she could find more permanent employment.

Mr. Melrose also thanked her graciously for her contribution before asking Ms. Desmond to escort her to the Georgetown foyer. The blonde agent wasn't nearly as appreciative; she stood in tightlipped silence during the short elevator ride, finally giving Amanda frigid half-smile before leaving her at the desk of the equally forbidding receptionist. She didn't set eyes on Lee Stetson after he left her in the Agency conference room.

After leaving IFF, Amanda visited a Georgetown deli, arranging the delivery of hot soup and rolls to Muriel Cannelli. Then she made a hurried stop at Handy Hardware before returning to Arlington.

Scooping up the small, brown bag containing the batteries for Jamie's science project, she dropped it into her purse before exiting the vehicle and taking the short walkway to the back door.

"Mother," she called as she stepped into the kitchen. "I'm home."

"Amanda!" Dotty's voice, carrying from the family room, held a distinct edge of reproach. "Is that you? Where in the world have you been? You've been gone for hours, and when I called Muriel, she said you never showed up with her soup. She said there was total mayhem outside her building this afternoon: there was a huge crowd, and an ambulance, and she expected the entire area to be cordoned off, like a crime scene, but instead two men started shooing everyone away. I was afraid you'd been dragged off the street, in broad daylight, by some mysterious --"

"You read too many spy novels, Mother." Amanda broke into the imaginative, and disturbingly accurate, diatribe. Unable to tell the truth, and unwilling to be caught in a lie, she struggled to concoct a story to satisfy her inquisitive parent. "I couldn't get into Muriel's building, so I finished some errands. The soup was ruined by then so I sent her an order from Fellipi's deli." Setting her purse on the kitchen counter, she walked down the short hallway to the coat closet.

Dotty was reclining on the sofa, a dog-eared book in one hand and a rainbow-hued afghan draped comfortably over her legs. Laying the open book across her lap, she studied her daughter much as she had years before, when Amanda had returned later than expected from high school classes or cheer-leading practice. "You should call when you're going to be late. I was beginning to think I'd have to contact the FBI and file a missing person report."

"Wrong office," Amanda muttered under her breath as she secured her coat onto a hanger, pushing jackets, sports gear and rainwear aside to make a place for it.

"What did you say, dear?" Dotty asked, squinting at her over the rims of her reading glasses.

"I, um --." Amanda bit her lip, avoiding the penetrating gaze. Sometimes Dotty West seemed to inhabit her own offbeat world, barely aware of the myriad mundane details of life around her . . . but other times, just when her daughter least desired and expected it, she was alarmingly perceptive. "I said I took the wrong on ramp, Mother, and I got onto the expressway by mistake. Traffic was so bad I had to drive all the way to Rockville before I could get turned around."

Dotty gave a soft snort and shook her head. "And you wonder why I don't want a driver's license. There are too many drivers on the road now." Picking up her book, she turned a page, apparently engrossing herself in her newest mystery. "Speaking of driving, dear, Dean called," she added in a nonchalant voice, not lifting her eyes from the page. "He wants you to drive into town tomorrow to have lunch with him. I told him you'd love to. He'll meet you at Emilio's at one o'clock."

The mention of her current romantic interest sparked a feeling more of resignation than of excitement. "I wish you wouldn't make dates for me," Amanda said, wondering uneasily why she wasn't more pleased by the prospect of lunching with her boyfriend. Deciding she must be tired after her busy day, she pushed the unsettling question from her mind. "I don't know whether I'll have time," she said, "I need to type more resumes."

Dotty closed her novel with a snap, shaking an admonishing finger. "You know, Amanda, I really admire the way you're going full throttle at this job search . . . you always put so much effort into everything you do . . . but you have to make time for the people you love. Relationships are like gardens. If you don't nurture them, especially when they're just starting to sprout, they'll never grow and bloom. Besides, I'm sure Dean will support you if you really want to have a career, but I don't think he'll expect his wife to work."

"Mo-ther!"

"Hey, mom!" Jamie's shout drowned out Amanda's protest as he barreled into the house, the rapid thud of his footsteps and crash of a slamming door adding to the auditory assault. "Jimmy Norton's mom invited me to dinner; is it okay? They're having pizza and we're going to work on our science project afterwards . . . Mr. Norton's an electrician so he knows all about transformers . . . he helped Danny Norton win second place in the science fair two years ago. Did you get my batteries?"

"They're in my purse, on the kitchen counter." Amanda tried and failed to plant a kiss on her son's cheek as he raced past her toward the kitchen. "That child needs to stop for breath once in a while," she said, with a lopsided grin at her mother. "There are times I can barely understand him."

"He gets that from his father's side of the family," Dotty said complacently. "You know I love Joe's mother, but she's the world's worst chatterbox. She absolutely monopolizes every conversation and no one else can get a word in. The last time we had Thanksgiving dinner together --"

"Mom!" a penetrating wail interrupted Dotty's ramble. " These are D's; I need 9 volts!"

"What?" Retracing her steps to the kitchen, Amanda found her son holding a crumpled brown bag, his face a portrait of seven-year old despair. Taking the bag, she peered inside; two shiny batteries -- cylindrical Ds, not rectangular 9 volts -- nestled in the bottom. "That's odd," she said, "I know I bought 9 volts."

Her open purse was lying on its side, a jumble of contents spilling onto the counter. Reaching past her wallet and car keys, she groped inside until her fingers grazed a lumpy, paper package. With a firm tug, she pulled out a brown bag almost identical to the one she was holding. Each had a white receipt stapled to the upper edge, the words "Handy Hardware" proclaimed in clear, block letters. The second receipt was the one from her purchase less than thirty minutes previously.

"Here are the 9 volts, sweetheart," she said, handing Jamie the correct bag as she balanced the other on her palm. "Now, if you're going to the Nortons for dinner, you'd better hurry. And don't slam the --"

Amanda flinched as her words were cut off by a piercing "Thanks, mom!" and the rumble of the front door smashing into its frame.

Her fingers tightened around the remaining batteries. Where had they come from? Chewing a fingernail, she retraced her afternoon. She hadn't picked up an extra package at Handy Hardware. After putting her wallet into her purse and pulling out her car keys, she hurried to the station wagon clutching both the keys and her purchase.

She waited in line for ten minutes at the tiny deli, watching the grandfatherly proprietor assemble his customers' selections of corned beef on rye and pastrami on foccaccia while the tangy aroma of horseradish and onion reminded her of the hours since her early lunch. When it was her turn to place an order at the cluttered counter above the glass-fronted display of cold cuts and swiss and provolone, the jovial man wiped greasy fingers on his apron and waved away her money. Mrs. Cannelli was an old friend, and his minestrone would have her on her feet in no time at all. Amanda left the deli without even opening her bag.

She only opened her purse once during her hours at the Agency, when she made a brief visit to the ladies room. Despite the shiny badge clipped to her blouse, she felt like more like a prisoner than a visitor, under Francine Desmond's glowering escort. She wasn't the kind of person who took things that didn't belong to her . . . and even if she had been, she would have been dissuaded by the blonde agent's watchful eyes, folded arms and tapping foot .

The purse was spilled, though, during the commotion outside the Genessee Arms Apartments. Lee Stetson kicked over her bags and . . . .

Amanda's attention jerked back to the receipt. The batteries had been purchased that afternoon . . . at 12:15 p.m. . . . . With a sharp intake of breath, she grabbed the phone off the counter and edged as far as possible toward the dining room, away from her mother's keen ears. Dialing a number she had learned by heart, she chewed her lower lip and waited . . . .

Thirty frustrating minutes later, she reached a decision. She held the clue that might prevent the stolen HTK missile plans from leaving the country, and she was going to share it, even at the risk of bruising Lee Stetson's over-inflated ego. He was going to get her help whether he wanted it or not.

"Amanda, where are you going now?" Her mother's wide eyes followed her as she retrieved her coat and fled out the back door.

"I need to buy a new typewriter ribbon, Mother," she called. "So I can type my resumes." With a sigh, she pulled the door closed, ignoring her mother's incredulous stare. It was a good thing she didn't have to do this kind of thing very often.