Monday, September 25, 2005

Having caught an early flight, Mac hurried home, hoping to catch Harm before he left for work. Aside from the short excursion to the Eiffel Tower, she had pretty much been unavailable to take calls all weekend. When she did return the short, redundant messages he left on the hotel phone, she couldn't connect with him. Still, worry and concern consistently won out over hurt and confrontation. There had to be a simple explanation -- an explanation that might leave her angry at his inconsiderate behavior, but thoroughly relieved about his welfare.

Paying the taxi fare, she pulled out her keys when she reached their front door. Worry turned to outright fear when two days of mail and three days of newspapers greeted her.

Surely if he had been in an accident, someone would have tracked her down -- unless he had slipped in the shower and lay unconscious over the weekend, unless he … Possibilities that didn't make any sense streamed in until the bearing of a professional investigator snapped in place.

Stepping cautiously inside, Mac called out, "Harm? Harm, I'm home." The answering silence rang loud in her ears, threatening to drain the blood from her head.

Leaving her bags inside the door, she hurried to the shower. Immediately there was a modicum of relief finding it empty, but it still left the ultimate question unanswered. 'Where are you?'

She resumed searching the flat for any signs, part of her hoping to find something, part of her hoping not. In her absence, it was clear Harm hadn't skipped the dishes, the laundry, or the bed-making. It was also clear he hadn't retrieved any of her messages on their land line. The realization made her vision swim. Her thoughts turned to Clayton Webb, CIA, deception, and lies.

Staring at the offensive answering machine, Mac physically jumped when the phone rang.

"Hello!"

"Mrs. Rabb?"

"Speaking!"

"It's Petty Officer Timmons from Captain Rabb's office, Ma'am."

Thank God, Mac thought. Closing her eyes, she was ready to listen to any explanation that would make her world stop spinning.

"Is he there, Ma'am?" Timmons asked.

And just like that, the flicker of optimism she had permitted herself was extinguished. From that point on, she could only manage a simple, "What?"

"Ma'am, Captain Rabb was scheduled for a 0700 breakfast meeting, but he hasn't arrived yet. Do you know if he's on his way?"

----------------

Having established that Friday afternoon was the last time anyone from Harm's command had seen him, Mac didn't think twice about using all resources available to her. After all, she worked in the Defense Attache Office, an office quite capable of connecting the U.S. Military with the local metropolitan police and its high-tech resources. Eager to get to the bottom of things as well, Mac's boss, Preston Stahl, facilitated a meeting with Chief Constable Leonard Wickham of the City of London Police Department.

London was among the most security-conscious cities in the world. Indignant or not, that meant the citizenry dealt with a degree of electronic surveillance many Americans might balk at. Video cameras mounted in subways, on buildings, and in select nooks and crannies monitored nearly every street in the city. Domestic wiretaps, airwave monitoring, and internet tracking systems complemented the watchdog activities.

"We have an address from which several calls were made using the number you provided," Constable Wickham announced.

Mac accepted and quickly pocketed the slip of paper containing the address information. "Thank you."

"Does it mean anything to you?" Preston Stahl asked.

"Not really, Sir. It was just a number left on our answering machine," she lied.

"Ma'am, you're sure Captain Rabb left at 1730 on Friday?" Inspector Bergman asked, anxious to show off his technical talents.

"I'm positive. It's the time he signed out at the security desk and minutes before he left a phone message on my cell explaining he was on his way home," Mac answered.

"This is footage from the Audley CCTV starting at 1730," the young inspector explained, replaying video captured by the closed circuit television camera.

"There he is!" Mac pointed out Harm's tall frame exiting the Navy Headquarters Building. "He's heading in the direction of the Kensington Square parking lot."

It was odd watching Harm on the silent, black and white video, an activity somewhere between voyeurism and invasion of privacy. But Mac couldn't help drink it all in. Her eyes never left him as he negotiated the bustling sidewalk. His gate, his bearing, the way he looked up and rubbed his neck while waiting for the traffic light to change in his favor. How he paused at the Embassy arch, their usual meeting place at the end of the day. The friendly wave he gave to the familiar security guard.

"I've factored in a two minute walk and jumped to one of the cameras monitoring the lot," Inspector Bergman explained while working the console. Like clockwork, Harm appeared in the next frame. "His cell phone is out. That coincides with his call to you, Ma'am."

Though their view was frequently interrupted with passing traffic, it was sufficient to see the scene unfold. Outwardly Mac squirmed in her seat as the woman slipped behind Harm with open familiarity and leaned into him. Inwardly she ached, a piece of her heart fracturing when Harm reacted to the seduction with casual assurance.

"Do you recognize the woman?" Mac's boss asked cautiously when neither the Constable nor Inspector appeared anxious to speak.

"Umm, no. I don't think so," Mac answered quietly.

Even without Mac's awkward fidgeting and uncertainty, the group's first impression was clear. To them the public tryst between the handsome officer and attractive woman looked more like a prelude to romantic foreplay than overt foul play. It didn't matter that the video quality was too grainy to say if Harm's expression was grin or grimace.

Mac didn't need a degree in human nature to read the non-verbal language in the room. She stood angrily. "It's not what it looks like!" Unfortunately, there was little concrete evidence to the contrary.

When a large delivery truck double parked, it blocked everyone's view of the soap-operatic drama. A minute later the show continued with footage of the departing SUV. Freezing the action on an unobstructed frame, Inspector Bergman worked his magic. Zooming in on a side window, the pair was spotted in the front seat -- the woman's arm was around Harm's shoulders; his face was buried in her neck.

"Mrs. Rabb, rest assured we'll check other surveillance cameras and see if we can backtrack the woman's arrival. Perhaps there's something to help identify her," Constable Wickham added diplomatically.

Acknowledging the offer with a nod of her head, Mac turned to her boss, prepared to resign on the spot if necessary. "Sir, I need some time off."

Preston Stahl had been around long enough to know Captain Rabb held sufficient rank to schedule leave on a relative whim. That he forgot to tell a subordinate was now unfortunate and a prelude to much scuttlebutt. He thanked God his staff hadn't been blessed with any aviators. Their cavorting was legendary. Then again, if the pictures he had seen from his recent Embassy party were any indication, turnabout was fair play. Nevertheless, anxious to spare his capable assistant any more embarrassment, Stahl responded compassionately. "Take all the time you need."

"Thank you, Sir."

While she had responded stoically, Mac wanted to run as fast as possible from the room. Not because of the overwhelming innuendo screaming marital infidelity but because she had gotten what she really came for – Clayton Webb's whereabouts. In all honesty, she had no remorse fibbing about how she obtained his phone number.

---------------

Hearing the door creak behind her, Mac spun around, caught in the act of rummaging through the small armoire. Clenched in her hand was the pack of matches she had found in the pants pocket.

"Where is he!"

Clayton Webb stopped short, only slightly startled. Stepping into the tossed room, he closed the door behind him. Pulling the non-descript wrapping off the new bottle of cognac, he tossed the former into the waste can and set the latter on the cluttered dresser.

"Sarah, this is a pleasant surprise," he answered, rummaging amongst the mess for a clean glass. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

Webb simply nodded to the bed. And that's all it took. Mac covered the distance between them in two steps, flung him around, and deposited him onto his back in the middle of the mattress. The bottle of liquor smashed to the floor, emptying its contents across the old floorboards.

Webb smirked. "You always did like it rough."

Mac applied her open hand across his cheek to wipe the offending leer from his face. Seeing she had his attention, she tried again, "Where's Harm?"

Webb rubbed the sore spot. "And here I thought you came for an unconditional roll in the hay."

"That's obscene!"

"Is it, Sarah? Isn't that the real reason you often slept with me – for information about Harm."

"What information, Clay! Every time I asked 'need to know' came out of your mouth. It's not good enough this time! What has he been pulled into?"

Enjoying the physical contact, Webb didn't squirm as Mac pinned his wrists next to the pillow, her knee planted in his solar plexus. In contrast to Mac's rising anger, he continued calmly in his infuriating manner. "Did you ever tell Harm about our lovemaking? How you used it for leverage to gain knowledge about his dealings in the Company? Tell me, once he was back in Chegwidden's good graces, what was our relationship based on then – a way to get back at him, hurt him, keep your distance from him, what?"

"You can't accept I ended it with you at Manderle," Mac answered instead. In truth she hadn't told Harm the lengths she went to back then for any sliver of information about his whereabouts. In fact she lied when he asked about it – pillow talk he had called it. But at the time, she was desperate. No one had heard from him. It was as if he had fallen off the face of the earth. Once back in the Navy, she could see he was safe. Still she continued seeing Clay, not knowing how to undo 'never'.

"Did he find my phone number in your cleavage? Did you even tell him you had it?"

Mac's face filled with disgust. She hadn't told Harm how Clay had slipped the information unobtrusively inside her dress while they danced at the Embassy party. She hadn't even told him about the dance. The whole fiasco had occurred because Harm was late. And because of his tardiness, she had to politely endure Clay being seated in Harm's vacant seat, politely engage him in ridiculous conversation, and later, like any good employee involved in diplomatic service, politely accept his hand when he asked to dance. To do otherwise would have caused an inappropriate scene.

The entire charade had been infused with anger -- anger towards Harm for being late, anger towards Webb for taking advantage of the setting, and anger towards herself for not decking him on the dance floor when his bold intimacy surpassed the limits of diplomatic decorum. His sordid behavior left in its wake a small piece of paper hidden firmly in the bodice of her dress. In the private confines of the ladies room, she found it to be his phone number with the message 'Call me.'

Ready to confront his immature conduct, she returned to the dance floor. Finding he had slipped silently away, she took out her frustration on a late arriving Harm – chastising him for the reentry of Clayton Webb, and all that he stood for, back into their lives.

Drawn back to the present, Mac backed off the bed. Ignoring the wooden chair in the small boardinghouse bedroom, she began pacing the confined space like a cornered lioness, ready to pounce again given the slightest provocation. "Damnit, Clay! At least tell me if he's in danger! Who is the woman? And did you really think I'd call you?"

Free to move again, Webb sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. His vision momentarily blurred from the motion. When the room refocused, he stood and went to the small sink in the corner. After splashing his face with cold water, he set about to make a pot of coffee.

"I didn't even know you'd be there. But once I saw you, I thought Harm might be involved. But he wasn't around to ask. And I couldn't stick around to explain."

"Damn you."

"I didn't have a choice."

"Right, you always do what the Company tells you!"

"That's the way it works! You know that!"

"Why couldn't you wait for Harm?"

"The person I was tracking was leaving. I had to follow them."

"Aren't you the least bit worried about him!"

"Of course I am! I haven't forgotten he saved my life!"

The realization of what was at stake sobered them both. After the shouting match, silence descended over the room. Webb was the first to break the pensive interlude. Treading carefully, he said, "Look, if he cooperates, I don't think he's in danger."

Mac pulled a picture from her purse. Inspector Bergman had provided her with it before she fled. "Do you know this woman?"

Webb looked at the proffered photo and sighed. "Her name is Cynthia McPherson. She's loosely aligned with PETS - Premier Executive Transport Services."

Mac shook her head, the added bit of information and Webb's carefully couched answer did little to shed any light on what was going on. She opened her clutched hand, showing him the matches from the Hotel Champerret Elysees. "Why were you in Paris?"

"When Harm didn't call me, I went to watch his back."

"You make it sound so noble, considering he wasn't even there."

"The intel I got was that he was traveling with you to Paris. But you obviously changed plans."

"You're saying it's my fault he doesn't have backup?"

"No, damn it."

Not wanting to waste time arguing the point, Mac returned to something more relevant. "What exactly is PETS and how is Harm involved?"

Webb stood and ran his hand through his hair. It was his turn to pace. "Sarah, go home. Harm will turn up. You'll want to be there when he does."

Mac positioned a chair in front of the door then sat defiantly on it, making it clear she didn't intend to leave. "No! I'll not stand by and wait for another of your ops to go south."

"It not my op!"

"Fine, whatever. Tell me what you know."

Knowing she wouldn't easily be thrown off the scent, Webb did just that.

"PETS is based in Portland, Oregon. They own a number of Gulfstream aircraft. But according to FAA records, there is no contact information for the company's lone corporate officer, a Jason Smith. There's no public record at all for Jason Smith, no residential address, no telephone number, nothing. The company and Smith exist only on paper. He's been issued a Social Security Number and a post office box in Arlington, Virginia. The same box number has been issued to 65 other fictitious names and companies."

Clay paused, waiting for Mac to put the pieces together. She didn't disappoint.

"You're telling me PETS is a dummy corporation and Jason Smith is a false identity created by the CIA to conceal one of their operations."

Clay nodded. "It's a cover for their secret charter service to shuttle detainees to interrogation facilities. Everything is clandestine. Even their fight plans go unpublished."

Mac was familiar with the concept of 'Ghost Prisons'. There had been much in the press recently regarding their alleged existence. The CIA was reputed to have such facilities in Egypt, Syria, Uzbekistan, Poland, Romania, and Hungary. All launched after September 2001 to secretly kidnap suspected terrorists and transport them to foreign lands where they could be interrogated using methods outlawed by the United States.

The CIA had solicited legal authorization from the Justice Department to deal with the treatment of these prisoners. Consequently, the detainees were slotted into a newly created category called 'illegal enemy combatants'. Some said it was a category which placed them in a sub-human class, lacking all basic human rights. Proponents of such a classification argued there were people so bad they didn't deserve the protection of the law. Opponents argued, in the absence of a trial, who determines if the people detained as 'illegal combatants' are either 'illegal' or even 'combatants'.

Mac's mouth was dry as she considered the implications. "Harm?"

Clay voiced what she could not. "According to his record, he did a stint with PETS."

"Oh God…It's my fault … all because of Paraguay! All because of--"

"Sarah … Sarah, listen! It was Harm's decision to sign on with the Agency, and his decision alone. Once he did, he didn't get to pick and choose his assignments. If we're going to win the War on Terror, some things must be done quietly, using whatever methods available. He knew that too."

"But he doesn't work for the Agency any more and they have other pilots! What have they had him doing the last 66 hours?"

A knock at the door and a finger to his lips silenced any answer Webb might have given. Mac slipped the concealed gun from her purse and moved away from the entrance. Meanwhile Clay peered through the peep hole. "It's okay. Put the gun away. I was expecting him."

Mac watched as he moved the chair away, disengaged the deadbolt, and opened the door.

"Colonel MacKenzie, this is a surprise."

"Admiral Spencer!"

Webb's brow wrinkled into a droll expression. "I take it the two of you have met?"