The phone woke him, ringing persistently on the wall. Tony rubbed his eyes and sat up, unusually refreshed. The drawn curtains kept the room dim, but he could see bright sunlight peering through the cracks. Someone picked up the second phone in the kitchen and he stirred lazily, pushing his blanket aside. He crept upstairs and had a quick shower, pulling clean clothes on and combing his hair before he joined his mother. 'Hi mom. What's the time?'

'11:08,' she answered, amused. 'I'll get some coffee and toast.'

'Oh,' Tony muttered, embarrassed. 'You should've woken me.'

His mother laid his breakfast in front of him. 'No, sweetheart, you needed to sleep. You already look a lot better.' She poured herself coffee and settled opposite him. 'What are you doing today, Tony? It's quite warm for a winter's day; you should get a little fresh air.'

He nodded, glancing through the blinds. 'Yeah. I'll go down to the beach for a while.'

His mother smiled gently. 'I was going to suggest that. Sweetheart, I don't want you swimming now, ok? You're not quite over that cold.'

Tony rolled his eyes, laughing in annoyance. 'Mom, you're worse than Michelle. I'm fine.'

His mother shook her head firmly. 'You're not. Remember, no swimming. Tony.' He turned to look at her, exasperated. 'I'm your mother, I'm never gonna stop worrying about you.' Heart bursting, he leaned forward, feeling her stroke his hair. 'I'm off to work after lunch, but I'll here for dinner,' she told him, pulling him close for a hug. 'But dinner might be a little late tonight.'

'That's fine,' he replied, carrying his dishes to the sink. 'I might spend a little time at home, there's something I need to check out on Michelle's computer. I'll see you when you get back.'

He was unable to miss the anxious expression his mother cast him. Yeah mom, you're right. This is turning into an obsession now, I know. I just can't leave it. Hot water burned his fingers and he rapidly turned the cold tap. 'I'll see you at dinner.'

The sun was warm for mid-January, and he removed his jacket and sat on the sand in his jeans and t-shirt, gazing at the endless ocean. Just three weeks ago his life had been over, wasted day by day in solitary confinement, and now he was back at the beach, a free man. Tony watched the moving mass of blue before him for an hour before he rose and wandered over to the beach café, rubbing his face. Taking a deep breath he pushed the door open and went inside, wondering whether he would be recognized.

'Lieutenant Almeida,' exclaimed the owner, grinning from ear to ear. Tony found his hand being pumped, and felt himself grin back, relieved at his welcome. 'Come in. Lunch is on the house. I heard they let you out, but you never came by.'

Tony settled at the furthest table and drank a little water, gazing round the café. 'You've done well, Ray,' he observed, as his lunch arrived.

'Yes sir, I have!'

Tony shook his head mildly. 'Now Ray, we discussed this before! There's no need for you to call me sir! It's been over twelve years.'

'Sergeant Koskinen was here yesterday,' Ray told him. 'He's been posted back home for a while. We spoke a lot about the old days sir, and about you. Look, why don't you come for lunch tomorrow, he'll be here. I know he really wanted to see you.'

'Sergeant Koskinen,' Tony repeated, drawn back to his military days. A picture of his silent capable sergeant came to him, arming his men before he received his next orders, ready for combat 24 hours a day. 'Tell him I'll be here.' He ate his lunch slowly, watching the ocean, lost in memories. Had I known what the future held in store, I would've remained with the Marines. He found himself looking forward to seeing Koskinen again. You're healing, Almeida, its taking a while but you're getting there. You're not scared of running into people anymore.

He drove back to the house he owned with Michelle, leaving his car on the driveway. Yesterday's rain had come at the right moment, saving him the work of turning on the sprinklers. He let himself in, placing his keys in his jacket pocket before he hung it on the pegs beside the door. The house was clean and silent. Tony wandered into the kitchen and filled the coffee maker, before he moved into the office and powered up Michelle's computer. She would be mad at him, he knew, but he needed her security clearance to access the highest circles in Intelligence and discover their mole. Someone was passing out classified information, he was certain of it. He had time, he would find them.

Pushing aside his guilt he entered Michelle's password, watching another box appear. This one demanded an access code. Tony smiled bitterly, typing the numbers in. For a moment he worried that she might have changed it, but it seemed the time held as deep significance for her as it did for him. The date our baby was supposed to have been born. He paused momentarily, lost in thought, remembering their sorrow at losing the baby eight weeks into the pregnancy. "It'll be ok, sweetheart. You heard the doctor. There's no reason why we can't have another baby, a healthy one." Michelle had pushed his arm away, wiping her tears. "It's not ok, Tony. Don't you dare tell me it is. We were going to have THIS one!" He nodded slowly, allowing her to look at the tears glistening in his own eyes. "I know, sweetheart." He had been arrested less than two months afterwards.

Tony swallowed hard, forcing his attention back to the computer. The months in solitary had taken their toll; he found it hard to remain focused. The slightest sound or smell drew him back into the past and several minutes would elapse before he realized his slip.

Easy, Almeida. You done it, you're in. Now go grab your coffee and settle down! He returned to the kitchen, opened the cupboard door and withdrew the Cubs mug, filling it with Colombian coffee. Sipping the scalding liquid, he returned to the office, sitting at the desk. Trembling fingers typed in the date the ship was blown up, seeking any mention of it in the hours preceding the disaster. As he expected, he came across the name in both naval archives and Intelligence. One of the departments had a mole; he just needed to decide which one to investigate first. Aware that his time might be limited and that the navy almost certainly carried out their own detailed investigation he focused his search on Intelligence instead.

Several coffees later he had narrowed down his search significantly. There were two assistant directors he suspected, one with a naval background who had been stationed at the blown up port just ten years prior to the incident, a certain Gerald Thomas – the other David Lachlan, a former intelligence agent at the US embassy of the country in question with a perfect knowledge of Arabic and a degree in contemporary religions, whose thesis discussed the Koran.

Tony yawned and decided to take a short break, having spent the previous four hours studying the monitor. He opened the sliding door and stepped into the garden, resting his eyes on the neat path and perfect lawn Michelle liked, before wandering towards the back. The first tiny shoots were pushing through the ground in his new vegetable patch. Tony bent closer, noticing snail damage. He unlocked the shed and poured a liberal dose of pallets round the patch, remembering his grandfather's constant battle with them in Chicago. "Abuelo, look, they're moving. They're kinda cute, don't you think?" His grandfather had groaned aloud, examining the snail he held in his palm. "Si they're moving, Antonio! They're all coming to join their relatives to ruin everything we have planted. Run to the shed and get me the snail pallets would you? They're on the second shelf near the door."

The winter sun had already lost its warmth as he turned on the hose and watered his patch. Taking a final look to check all in the garden was fine he returned to the kitchen, running warm water over his hands. The oven clock showed him it was 5:40. Tony climbed the stairs and walked into the master bedroom, hunting for a sweater. It was winter after all, he noted, much as he hated the season and attempted to deny its presence by wearing t-shirts. His favorite grey sweater lay in his top drawer; slightly out of shape but as warm as ever. He slipped it on, feeling better instantly.

Tony settled back in front of the computer, unable to decide which man to investigate further. After a moment of deep thought he pulled up their files and studied their photos, searching their eyes. Two bureaucrats looked out at him, both with receding hair lines and hard eyes. An image of Chappelle filled his mind which he firmly pushed away, ordering himself to focus. Which man was guilty? Both shared a no-nonsense expression, both wore grey suits; they were about the same height. Stop wasting time, Almeida! Pick a guy! He stared at them again, recalling his days at the military academy. "Sometimes there's no logical reason for unease. If you're out in hostile territory and you sense a trap, go with your instincts, you've been given them for a reason! Now Almeida, tell me which building you think the snipers are sheltering behind. Get it right, your men will live. Get it wrong, you've wiped everyone out!"

Tony decided the former intelligence worker at the embassy was too obvious; he would examine the naval officer first. He typed in the man's name and attempted to get beyond the basic biographical page. If he was to have any success he needed to check the man's diary for the day, as well his calls. The phone company proved simple enough to hack into, he had done so before for Jack several years ago when he worked under Nina. There was an outgoing call to Kuwait fifteen minutes before the explosion, but the number proved to belong to an oil company. Tony rubbed his face, determined to investigate further. Taking a deep breath he hacked into Thomas' personal files, aware of the risk he was running. Technology had changed since his arrest, new safeguards were in place.

Totally absorbed in his task, he searched the man's files, frustrated by the amount of intel received from Kuwait that passed his way. Slightly bolder, he typed in a search for the name of the ship, seeing it mentioned three times. The first file mentioned the ship in a list of others taking part in the war games. Tony clicked on the second file.

A faint breeze moved the blinds for a fraction of a second, causing him to freeze. Eyes narrowed, he rose from the desk and crept to the office door. The family room was silent, its sliding door partially open in the same position he left it in. Tony paused, instincts on full alert. A draught required two open windows, and he had certainly locked the front door behind him. Biting his lip he crept into the family room, peering into the corridor. All was silent, the front door locked as before. He crept into the hall, working his way noiselessly up the stairs, resolved to collect his gun from the master bedroom's closet. All was silent at the top of the landing. Tony remained pressed against the banisters, straining his ears to pick up any sound. Had he imagined the entire incident? No, he was certain the blinds had moved. Had there been a stronger gust than normal? He decided it was possible. Slowly he straightened and walked across the landing, opening the bedroom's door.

A sound from the landing forced him to freeze. Someone was definitely out there. Tony turned noiselessly, peering outside. Cold metal pressed against his temple from behind, and an arm grabbed his. 'One movement, you're dead,' a voice hissed in his ear. Tony swung away from the gun, being tripped seconds later by a second assailant hidden behind his bed. He fell to the floor stunned, throwing out an arm to break his fall, pushing himself up the instant he landed, even as his mind screamed it was too late.

Two more men raced into the room, pinning him to the ground. Tony struggled valiantly despite the gun at his temple, doubting they would fire at him - overwhelmed by his captors' sheer numbers. One of his arms was dragged out from underneath his stomach and twisted behind his back, held secure by a man who sat on him. He kicked the man furiously; aware his right arm was taken, pulled so hard it dislocated. A scream rose from his throat as the injured arm as pulled backwards mercilessly and a cold cuff was placed round his wrist. Moments later a second cuff was secured round his left wrist and it was locked, tightened painfully.

'Prisoner secure,' said a voice, and Tony was hauled to his feet, struggling to focus through the waves of pain in his shoulder.

Agent Castle moved before him, examining him critically. 'Almeida, you're under arrest. I won't give you any crap about your rights, you ain't got any! Try anything at all, I WILL shoot you.'

'I haven't done anything.' Tony began, outraged. 'Get the hell outta my house!'

The man behind him gave him a tremendous push and he stumbled forward. 'Bring the computer,' Castle instructed another man who had obviously entered the house from the sliding door. 'Mr. Hammond wants to see it. You'll get your chance to protest when you see Mr. Hammond,' he told Tony, before turning to another man. 'Is the house secure? I want all the doors and windows locked; I don't want the neighbors seeing anything! It's imperative Almeida is interrogated before his wife can raise hell.'

'Sir, his car is in the garage,' an agent told him, while Tony was pushed down the stairs.

'Bring it. And for God's sake someone clean the kitchen. Come on, let's move.'

'Sir, I can't override the security on the car. I need the keys,' the young agent told him, returning moments later.

Castle waved a hand and the two men pulling him stopped, pushing Tony against a wall. 'Where are the keys, Almeida?'

Tony pressed his lips together, breathing through the agony in his right shoulder. Fury at having his home invaded and fear of his situation surged through him, causing his heart to hammer against his ribs.

'I won't ask nicely a second time, Almeida. Where the hell did you put your car keys?' Castle waited a couple of seconds before hissing in annoyance. Wordless, he grabbed Tony's right arm, jerking it lower. Damaged muscles tore as he screamed aloud, collapsing against the wall. 'Search through the jackets,' Castle instructed, giving up on getting an answer from his prisoner. 'Take him to the van.'

Four armed agents escorted him through the front door and into a blue van. He was pushed into a back seat, his feet shackled to two iron rings on the floor while his body was restrained by a leather strap, immobilizing him against the seat.

Tony was in too much pain to put up more than a token resistance as all four men climbed in beside him and Michelle's computer was placed on the front seat. 'Alright, let's go.' The van moved off, and he turned to glance back at his house, struggling to breathe. You've been caught, Almeida! Someone noticed you hacking in! And that someone might be a little hard to placate, seeing how he had you brought in! You're in real trouble. He chewed his upper lip, staring in silence at his feet shackled to the floor. Oh God, what have I done? They're going to send me back to prison. The breath caught in his throat and he struggled to breathe, feeling pure panic take hold of him. Easy Almeida, you can explain. He struggled to calm himself. Sure he would explain, but would anyone listen? They had to; they were the counter terrorist unit, after all! Whether or not they believed his suspicions they were duty bound to investigate. The setting sun blinded him as it shone onto his face.

The van drew up outside a tall office block with black windows. Tony was hauled out and led through the back door into Division, surrounded by six security guards. The end of a long corridor which he had never examined in all his previous visits to the place led them to the main floor, and he was pushed over to a door a few feet away. Steps led downwards. He fought against his dread. They were going to the interrogation area, the securest part of the building. This was certainly not the part where cooperative witnesses were questioned, but the rooms used for hard-core terrorists. He had heard rumors of what interrogations in the bowels of Division consisted of and had dismissed them as unrealistic. His heart pounded harder as he reached the bottom of the steps, emerging into a subterranean corridor. Grey unpainted concrete met his eyes, lit by bright neon lights high above him. Cameras occupied every corner. Tony shut his eyes momentarily, fighting dizziness caused by his aching shoulder.

A security guard pulled out a key and moved forward, unlocking a solid steel door. Another guard pulled an access card through a slot and the door swung open. Two men moved ahead and Tony was pushed through behind them, followed by the remaining four. They led him along a wide corridor decorated only by solid grey doors. He was pulled up before the fourth door and a guard unlocked it. 'Move it,' ordered a security guard, giving him a vicious shove as he remained at the threshold, unable to bring himself to enter.

Tony stumbled inside, hearing the door slam behind him. He turned immediately, kicking it. 'Hey, my handcuffs! You're supposed to take them off, right?' Silence greeted him. Enraged, he kicked the door again, before turning to examine the holding room. It was meager, concrete floor and walls and a steel table and chairs bolted into the floor. The fourth wall consisted of solid glass through which he was unable to see. They would be observing him from behind it, gauging his reactions. He pressed his lips together and settled on a chair, pulling his impenetrable mask on. They would arrive to question him in half an hour or so, he imagined, leaving him to stew for a while.

True to his expectations the door was unlocked half an hour later. Tony glanced up from the table and watched two security guards enter, followed by Brad Hammond. He drew a deep breath, unsure whether Hammond's arrival meant he would genuinely be questioned, or whether the man's obvious antipathy towards him caused him to be selected.

'Almeida,' Hammond began, without any further greeting.

'Mr. Hammond,' Tony replied, relieved to hear his voice sounded firm.

'Sit down,' Hammond ordered, a smug look filling his bulldog face. Tony sat down, nodding his head behind him. 'Don't bother to ask me to remove those, it won't happen,' Hammond said, sitting opposite him. 'Is there anything you need to tell me, Almeida?'

'Yes sir,' Tony agreed. 'My shoulder was dislocated during my arrest. I need to see a medic now; I won't be able to stay conscious much longer.'

'That'll depend on what kind of cooperation I'll get,' Hammond told him, placing a tape recorder on the table. 'I wanna know exactly how long you've been selling information to this country's most dangerous enemies.' He gave Tony another hard look and pressed the recorder on.

'What?' Tony gasped, unable to believe the question. He had expected to be taken to task for hacking into District's files, possibly prosecuted for accessing classified information. He gazed at Hammond, shocked. 'You can't be serious, Brad!'

Hammond pointed silently to the tape. 'I suggest you start telling me everything, Almeida. You don't really wanna know what we're capable of!'