Disclaimer: I don't own the situations or characters portrayed herein. I'm just playing with them for a while.


Chapter Twelve: End of the Fishing Line

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Information rarely came in floods. It came in drips. Sometimes it showed up in an unsteady trickle. Occasionally it arrived steadily, like the drone of an aircraft or the whine of an engine. Most often it just dripped. And sometimes it did come in a flood, rolling over a desk like a tide and sweeping away preconceived notions in a wave of information that opened doors and bore its recipients to glory.

Right now, it was coming in drips. If he hadn't already amassed an impressive amount of information, Lee might have gotten impatient; the holidays were coming up and he wanted to spend it with his family. He hadn't missed even one Christmas with his wife and their boys since he left the agency. Once the boys had gone off to college, Christmas had become associated with an influx of increasingly unfamiliar luggage in the halls: first duffle bags, then suitcases and makeup bags, then matching sets of suitcases and camera bags, then diaper bags and car seats. It was something they looked forward to, and it never felt quite like Christmas without the possibility of tripping over a new piece of luggage that told a story all its own.

Unfortunately, this year seemed likely to be an exception to their Christmas traditions. October came and went, and with it any hope of continuing to use the auditory Mr. Randall. Lee returned to the philanthropic society as Mr. Randall, making contact again with the cadaverous Mr. Thompson. He seemed unusually chatty these days, owing perhaps to the influence of his now-fiancée, Mrs. Beaufort de la Zouch.

Lee bided his time, waiting for the final denouement and beginning to be increasingly impatient.

He heard from Francine only occasionally, updating him on the plans for catching the people involved in the conspiracy and the effect of the false information that had been fed to Al Qaeda and Russia. Mostly he got coded messages from Amanda, confirming that Mr. Thompson was, in fact, the center of the case.

Lee thought he was beginning see the tenuous threads that made up the conspiracy, but he didn't fully understand his part in it yet. He knew full well that something was wrong, that something was afoot, but he couldn't understand why. What was the point of the whole business?


Somewhere in Washington, at a very specific desk, a man leaned back in his chair and sighed. It had been six weeks since Lee Stetson had gone undercover at the Philanthropic Society, and while he had done an excellent job at obtaining information, it still hadn't paid off in the way he had hoped.

Where was the leak? Who was funneling all this information to Russia and other enemies?

He had his suspicions — he had always had suspicions — but there was no concrete proof.

Not yet.

He reached for the phone. They would have to create some proof. They would have to force their enemy's hand.


The phone rang, echoing in the stillness of the damp, concrete basement. In the pause between rings, shuffling footsteps approached with an unsteady gait.

"You'll have to speed things up," the voice on the other end said unceremoniously when Mr. Thompson picked up the phone. "We don't have much time."

"No, sir," was the reply. "I'll do my best."

"This information is vital," the voice said. "It's important that it reaches the right channels. Do not fail."

"No, sir," Mr. Thompson said. "What about the woman?"

"Evange-whatever?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do nothing about her. She poses no threat at this time. But the information must go through to our allies."

"Yes sir. And if she interferes?"

There was a long pause before Timothy Barton-Brown spoke again.

"You have my authorization to neutralize the threat as planned."