After changing and throwing her hair up in a sloppy ponytail, Amanda slipped out of the bathroom and made it to the bedroom doorway before she smelled fresh brewed coffee and what she assumed was chicken noodle soup.
"Hi there." His rich baritone voice was soothing to her weary body. Hands shrouded in his pockets, he looked uncomfortable in her presence.
"Hi." She replied meekly.
"I thought maybe we could talk. I made some coffee and heated up some soup. Are you hungry?"
"A little. I missed dinner last night." Amanda glanced at her watch. "And I seem to have slept through breakfast and lunch." She shrugged.
"Okay," he sighed with a faint smile. "Have a seat, I'll bring it out." He motioned toward the dining room table and she made herself as comfortable as possible. She hoped this conversation would go better than their previous one in the bathroom.
"I hope you like chicken noodle. That's all I had." He smiled when he placed a bowl in front of her. "I haven't been to the store in a few weeks."
"Right, well you've been out of town. How was it?" At his questioning look she continued, "Your case. How'd it go?"
"It was fine. It was more Fielder's case than mine, really. I was just there as back up. But I'm more interested in your case. Can you tell me what happened?" He scooped up a spoonful of noodles that now sat precariously on his spoon, and blew on them before shoveling them into his mouth.
"I thought you said you talked to Mr. Melrose this morning?" She eyed him suspiciously.
"I did. But he only gave me a quick run down, no details. I want to know what really happened—from my partner. He stressed the last word and it touched her, as she assumed was his intention. There was a time in their relationship when he would have rather given himself over to the Russians than claim her as his partner.
She continued stirring the soup, content to watch it swirl.
"Amanda?" Lee called.
"Hmmm? Oh, right." She scooped up some sugar and added it to her coffee, needing time to compose herself before she began the diatribe.
"At first it seemed textbook. Mr. Melrose assigned me to help Francine about a week and a half ago and we spent that first Monday learning the ropes at the embassy and most of that evening at the bar on Massachusetts Avenue, you know the one across from the British Embassy?" He nodded. "Well, McGuinnis never showed up, so we went back the following night. We started to think it was wishful thinking that he would stick with the same MO of using a woman to get on the inside. Francine decided it was time to call it a night and regroup in the morning. Well, she had to use the ladies room, so I settled up the bar tab. Just then, I heard a distinct Irish accent whisper in my ear."
The memory of his voice caused her to shudder, and she rubbed her arms to fight the sudden chill. Try as she might, Amanda couldn't keep from reliving the events of the previous few days.
9:21 p.m. Wednesday, March 5, 1986
"Can I buy 'ya a drink, Lass?"
Startled, Amanda turned toward the heavily accented voice only to come face to face with a strikingly handsome man. It was the same man that she had seen in an Agency photo days before in her supervisor's office. His hair was sandy blonde, just long enough to touch his shoulders. But it was his eyes that caused her to suck in her breath. Their icy blue hue nearly pierced through her. How could those beautiful eyes belong to an international terrorist?
Swallowing hard, Amanda tried to regain some composure before answering the tall Irishman. "Uh," she looked pleadingly at the bathroom room door and then back to the tall man before her. "Yes, thank you." She stared at him as he wrapped his long legs around the barstool. A two-inch scar embedded itself in his right cheek, starting just below his eye and traveling down to his lip. It was the only flaw she could see that plagued the man. Perhaps that's why he kept a short beard—to hide the scar. He was slightly taller than Lee, and leaner. He had a commanding presence that demanded respect—with or without a gun, which she was certain was hidden beneath his black leather jacket.
Amanda had been shocked when she'd read McGuinnis' profile at the Agency two days prior. He'd had quite an illustrious career already at the age of twenty-eight. His rap sheet read like something out of a novel—starting with childhood pranks and vandalism, and quickly turning to more serious crimes as he got older, including numerous car bombings, and cold-blooded killings—all in the name of the Irish Republican Army. She wondered, not for the first time, what had happened in his young life to cause him to lash out in such violent ways. Certainly others had lost a parent and gone on to live productive, non-violent lives. She only needed to look as far as her partner to know that much was true.
Startled from her thoughts as the dark ale was placed in front of her, she tried to relax—it wouldn't do any good to scare him off now. "Thank you, mister . . .?"
"The name's Patrick O'Brien, lovely lass. And who might you be?"
"Nice to meet you . . . Mr. O'Brien." She reached out and shook his hand. He held her hand with his right and squeezed her elbow with his left in a very intimate manner. His eyes scanned her from top to bottom almost as if he was memorizing every bit of her. She couldn't help but blush. "My name is Amanda Keane." It seemed they weren't lacking in the fake name department this evening. "You have a beautiful accent. Where are you from?"
"Aye, Belfast, Ireland. I just arrived to your fair city a few days ago."
"Well, I hope you've gotten a chance to visit some of our wonderful monuments. There really is something to be said about all that history!" She stalled hoping beyond hope that Francine would rescue her.
"I've only had a chance to visit a few, but the one I'm looking at now is the prettiest I've seen!" He winked at her and took a gulp of his beer.
Amanda lowered her head and feigned embarrassment at his compliment. When she looked back up she caught Francine coming out of the ladies room but was certain she was able to return her focus on the man in front of her without detection.
"Perhaps you could show me around? I'd love to learn about all that history you mentioned. What do you say? Will you be my own personal tour guide, lovely Amanda?"
'Play it cool, Amanda.' Screamed her inner voice. "Oh, I don't know. We've only just met, Mr. O'Brien."
"Aye, but I'm a good judge of character. You seem pretty harmless to me. And I'd really like it if you'd call me Patrick."
"Well, I'm glad I've passed your security check, Patrick." She genuinely laughed. He really was charming. 'Yeah, a charming murderer,' her inner voice chimed in disapprovingly. "As nice as that sounds, Patrick, I do have to work." By this time, Francine had saddled up to the bar and ordered a white wine, obviously listening to every word the two of them spoke, as if Amanda didn't have enough pressure on her. Why did Francine have to leave her alone in the bar? What was supposed to be a simple assignment for Amanda had turned into a full-scale scramble, all because Francine's nose was shiny.
"Ah, and what is it that keeps you so busy, lass?" Before she could answer he continued. "Let me guess. From the looks of you, I'd say you were on the news . . . or perhaps an actress. Am I right?"
"Oh, nothing quite that glamorous, I'm afraid. I work for the White House, but I've been temporarily assigned to the British Embassy. There's a big conference coming up next week that I'll be helping to coordinate." There it was, the line had been cast. The question was, would he bite? Amanda picked up her beer and took a big swig, hoping to calm her nerves.
The sound of Lee clearing his throat brought her back to the safety of the present, and she continued with the events of the previous week. "Later that night, we had a late dinner, where he told me very little about himself. He was very good at switching the focus back to me-almost as good as you, Scarecrow." She quirked an eyebrow and he smiled.
"And after dinner?" His eyes spoke of something more than just curiosity, but she couldn't quite put her finger on exactly what it was.
"After dinner . . . he walked me to the agency car Francine and I drove there in."
"And then?" He asked with a raised brow when she didn't immediately continue.
"And then?" She looked at him expectantly.
"What happened when you got to the car? Did he . . ."
"We exchanged phone numbers, he kissed the back of my hand and we said goodnight." She shrugged.
"Well good." He rushed.
At his words, she looked up from her soup, and as their eyes caught, he looked contrite. He quickly feigned interest in his soup, clutching his fist around the spoon just a bit too tightly.
She decided it would be best to continue with her story. "I drove around the corner and met up with Francine as we had originally planned, only in reverse. Well, to say that Francine was upset that he'd made contact with me and not her would be a bit of an understatement." She rolled her eyes.
"I can only imagine what she had to say about that." Lee commiserated as he refilled his coffee and then offered her a warm up, but she shook her head no.
"Let's just say, that was the longest drive I've ever experienced. She didn't even stop yelling once we returned to the Agency. Mr. Melrose finally got her to accept that things were the way they were and we had to deal with it." She shrugged. "She mumbled something about it being 'typical Amanda-luck' and then we were able to get on with the plan." She pushed around the noodles before taking a sip of coffee.
"Is something wrong with the soup? I know it's not homemade but –."
"Oh, no. It's good."
"A-man-da, you haven't even taken a bite."
She knew he was trying to take focus off her ordeal by mothering her. She appreciated the effort and followed his lead.
"I'm sorry, Lee. I think my stomach's still upset from last night." She tilted her head to one side and then slowly to the other trying to work out the tightness in her neck and shoulders.
"Tell you what. If you take a few bites of soup, I'll take you for a walk in the park."
"Oh? And why would I want to do that? Did you forget I look like a monster?"
"You'd want to take a walk because, one, you're muscles are no doubt, very tight and the walk would help loosen you up; and two, because I happen to be very good company." He smiled broadly at her. What seemed like an afterthought, he added. "And you most certainly do not look like a monster. Now, hurry up and eat," he ordered.
"Yes, sir." She tried not to smile for fear of splitting her lip open again, but the feeling that came over her whenever he flashed that smile could not be smothered. Scooping up a spoonful of soup and bringing it to her mouth to sip, she suddenly remembered a similar situation. There she sat painfully watching Lee try to sip soup through his split lip after the 'Dodger' sucker punched him in the mouth. Had she known then how bad it felt, she would have insisted they leave—just knowing he was trying to make things up to her was more than enough—even if he was reluctant to admit it back then. She carefully slurped a few more bites to satisfy her caretaker and then dabbed each corner of her mouth with her napkin before placing it on the table.
A few minutes later, after they had cleaned up their soup bowls and coffee cups, she heard him come up behind her. "You ready to go?" He handed her his old Orioles hat and helped her to pull on her jacket.
"Lee, I don't know about this." She tugged his baseball cap as far over her eyes as she could, in hopes of covering her marred face.
"Well, I do. You need to get out and stretch your muscles, Amanda." He tipped her hat up and looked into her eyes. "Besides, you look beautiful." The feather-light kiss he bestowed upon the tip of her nose gave her the courage to follow him out of the safety of his apartment.