Resolutions – 13
Not a Good Day
by MMB
Xing-Li put down her purse and looked down at the center of her desk and a slow smile began to spread across her round face. The pile of papers looked very official, and in the middle on the very top was a green card the likes of which she thought she would never see. Miss Parker had come through on her promise, and she was now a legal resident — and within her rights to be working. She picked up the card and sighed with relief, then slipped it into her wallet before putting her purse away in preparation to start the day.
"Ah," Tyler said as he came into the outer office, "you saw what Miss Parker left for you this morning, I take it?"
"Yes, sir," she smiled up at him widely. "I don't know how to thank her…"
"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "If you keep doing what you're doing, you'll more than earn it." He leaned on her desk casually. "How was your dinner last night?"
"Very interesting. I know so little about American food — have you had a dish called 'casserole' before?"
"Often," he chuckled. "My mom used to throw one of those together at least once a week." He rose. "How does my day look today?"
The tiny woman seated herself confidently behind her desk and reached for the calendar on which she kept his appointments now. "You see a representative for Bristol-Meyer a little later this morning, a meeting with Mr. Atlee and Mr. Harrison at two and then have an appointment with a Dr. Ziegler from the Psychogenics Department at four. You also have three new sweeper candidates to be interviewed at four-thirty." She looked up at him again. "Would you like a cup of coffee first?"
"I'd love one!" he said, then looked up as two very serious-looking and uniformed men came through the outer door. "Yes, can I be of assistance?"
"I don't think so," the taller man said, then looked down at Xing-Li. "You are Ping Xing-Li?"
The Chinese woman glanced at Tyler for support and found him equally dumbfounded. "Y…yes?" she answered shyly.
"I'm Harold Shilling with INS. You'll come with us, please." The second man made a quick grab for her arm and dragged her from her chair.
"Now wait just a damned minute here," Tyler exploded. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"You can come with us too," Shilling said sternly. "There are severe penalties for employing illegal aliens…"
"But Xing-Li isn't illegal," Tyler protested, jerking his arm out of the grasp of the first man. "Show them your card," he told Xing-Li anxiously, then looked up into the face of the second man with fury. "Let her go and get her identification, damn it!"
It took a nod from the Shilling, but then Xing-Li was free to fly to her purse and pull out her wallet. She dug the brand-new green card from its slot and handed it up to the officer, who slipped it into his pocket. "Could be a forgery," the second officer said, reaching for her again.
"Not accompanied with these," Tyler pointed to the rest of the documents sitting on the desk. Shilling looked down with disdain and then did a double take. "Hang on, Jim," he said a little less officiously and leafed through the documents. He looked up at Tyler. "I'm a little confused here," he admitted. "We received an anonymous report of undocumented aliens being worked without adequate pay. The name Ping Xing-Li was one of the names listed — you're telling me…"
"The previous administration of the Centre did suffer from lack of oversight in some of those matters," Tyler hedged carefully, "a matter that the current administration took very seriously and went to work immediately to rectify." He thought for a moment. "My God, what about Mei-Chiang?"
"My other team is bringing the Hsu woman into custody," Shilling told him. He reached for the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. "Shilling to Walker. Check and see if she has a green card — we may be on a snipe hunt here."
"My green card, please," Xing-Li gathered all her courage and put out her hand to the tall American. He stared at her for a moment, then reached into his breast pocket and retrieved it for her. "My apologies, ma'am. It seems that there has been a mix-up along the line somewhere…"
"There sure has," Tyler was still furious. "The Centre does not take harassment of its employees by any group or agency lightly. I want a copy of that report on my desk by the end of the day or I will be tendering a serious complaint with your superiors."
"Did I hear you correctly?" a third man came through the office door with a trembling Mei-Chiang in hand. "This one gave me a green card too…"
"What the Hell is going on?" Miss Parker came barreling through the door next and rounded on the official with her secretary in tow. "Just who the hell are you and what are you doing with MY secretary?"
"They're INS," Tyler explained, still fuming. "Evidently SOMEbody sent in an anonymous tip that we were engaging in sweatshop practices with undocumented aliens."
"WHAT?!" She turned to her secretary. "Did you show them your card?" Mei-Chiang just nodded helplessly.
"We've seen a lot of quality forgeries, lady," the officer retorted.
"Yeah, but these AREN'T," Miss Parker hissed. "Our lawyers just went through all of the necessary paperwork mazes to acquire them very legally — and I can have you talk to him about who he talked to at INS to GET those cards."
"Let her go, Jim," Shilling sighed. "We've been had. This one had the rest of the documentation packet — and if she has it, I'll bet the Hsu woman has hers too somewhere."
"Impossible. Our people normally catch this kind of stuff before it gets to us," the man named Jim complained.
"My card." Mei-Chiang put out her hand just as Xing-Li had done earlier.
Miss Parker snatched the card from the fingers of the officer and handed it back to her secretary. "You can rest assured that we will be demanding an investigation into this," she hissed angrily. "Now get out."
"We're sorry to have disturbed your day," Shilling told Xing-Li warily, then nodded at Miss Parker. "Believe me, you're not the only ones who want to know what the hell was going on today."
The Centre quartet watched as the INS people sighed and pushed each other from the office. Miss Parker looked at Tyler. "What the Hell was THAT about?"
"I have an idea," Tyler grumbled, but then caught Xing-Li as she sagged toward her desk. "But I think we have a couple of people here who've had more than enough excitement for a while." He put a solicitous arm around her and helped her back into her seat and then straightened with a hand still on her shoulder.
"I'll call Sam," Miss Parker said immediately, noting that even Mei-Chiang's normally unflappable exterior was pale and her hands were shaking. "Sit down, Mei-Chiang," she instructed, pointing to a chair against the wall, "before you fall down too."
"What would they have done to us?" Xing-Li asked in a frightened tone, very grateful for Tyler's continued hand on her shoulder.
"That would have been a one-way ticket back to the Orient for you both," Tyler growled, then looked up at Miss Parker, who had pulled out her cell phone and was barking at Sam to get his ass to Tyler's office ASAP. "I think we've hit a nerve somewhere," he said knowingly to his boss once she'd disconnected. "Somebody wants us to pay for not cooperating like good little sheep."
"I heard from Broots last night," Miss Parker responded, still keeping an eye on Mei-Chiang. "We had an attempted hacking last night from somewhere on the naval base at Norfolk."
"Yup. We've hit a nerve alright," Tyler nodded, smoothing his hand down Xing-Li's back soothingly. "Just wait until it comes out that Stiller was arrested last night. We can expect more of the same, I'd imagine…"
"But from different directions," Miss Parker speculated. "I have a feeling they're going to be looking for any way to disrupt our day-to-day operations — this was just a first, tentative gesture."
Sam threw the outer office door open and barely stopped. "What happened?" he demanded and headed to Mei-Chiang's side the moment he saw her sitting in her chair looking extremely rattled.
"You take Mei-Chiang down to the cafeteria and help her calm down," Miss Parker directed her friend imperiously, then turned to Tyler. "And you take charge of Xing-Li." Her eyes narrowed. "I have a few phone calls to make — and a few heads to bite off."
"You want to see what?" the duty officer at the secured archives inquired of the two men standing before him.
"You heard me. I want to check the disposition of the files we received from the Centre a few weeks ago," Fox repeated slowly. "I was here a few days ago, if you remember…"
"Yes, sir, I remember you." The duty officer took the numbers of the boxes that Fox was requesting access to this time and ran them against his list of restricted materials. "I'm sorry, sir, but the material you requested is classified."
Fox sighed and pulled his letter from Admiral Samson out of his pocket and handed it to the duty officer. "Don't you think that it's odd that documents that have been here for two weeks only suddenly are made classified — especially when I report that some of the files from the specified boxes are missing?" he asked the sergeant, keeping a close eye on the man's response.
"I don't have anything to do with that," the sergeant shook his head. "I'll have to call upstairs and get this authenticated…"
"No, sergeant, you can call the number on the letter," Fox pointed to the phone number in the letterhead, "and speak to Admiral Samson himself." He waited, and the sergeant raised startled hazel eyes to meet his. "Now, if you don't mind — while I'm right here."
"Ad… Admiral Samson, sir?" the duty officer stammered. "As in…"
"That's right, sergeant. That's about as top-drawer as you can get — and sure as hell outranks your direct superior. Do you need me to dial the number for you?" Fox asked bluntly.
"No, sir," the sergeant picked up the telephone receiver. Fox made sure that the number he dialed WAS the one to Samson's office. The sergeant stated his purpose and then listened at attention, his eyes flicking over to the faces of the two men facing him several times while saying, "Yes, sir!" repeatedly. Finally he put the phone down and pushed the buzzer to allow Colonel Fox and Major Meyers into the archive. "I'm sorry about the delay, sirs…"
"I'm sure Admiral Samson cautioned you about the dangers of reporting this visit to anybody, didn't he," Fox rubbed the lesson into the young man's head mercilessly.
"Yes, sir. He certainly did, sir!"
"Good. Then I don't want to hear later that some unauthorized Colonel or General got word of this, do I?"
"No, sir." The sergeant's eyes were bugging out by now. "I understand this is a question of national security, sir — my lips are sealed."
"Very well," Fox turned his back on the young man. "Carry on." He jerked his head at Meyers to follow him.
"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"
Fox and Meyers retraced their steps to the spot in the tall, narrow aisle where they had stopped the last time. Meyers went once more for the rolling ladder and pulled it into position, then held it as Fox ascended and carefully pulled first one box from its appointed spot and then another, and then another. With three of the cardboard boxes on the floor next to the ladder, Fox then descended and pulled the top off of the first box. "Where's the list?" he asked while looking through the exposed file tabs.
"Right here, sir," Meyers handed him a paper on which had been listed all of the project names that the Centre had returned to the Pentagon.
Fox dug through the box, then dug again. "Damn it!" he growled, then lifted the lid from the second box and dug a little harder. "Shit!" He lifted the third lid.
"Sir?"
The Colonel dug through the third box and then stared up into the dark face of his aide. "Well, Curtis' anecdotal evidence is sustained by a review of the boxes in question. There isn't shit in these boxes that has the least bit to do with the Centre or any of its research projects. This is all crappola — office supplies requisitions." He took several of the pages from the box, folded them, and put them in his breast pocket. "If this junk is classified, this country's on the steep and slippery slope straight to Hell."
"What do we do now, sir?" Meyers asked, helping Fox when the senior officer put one of the lids back on.
"We put these puppies right back where we found 'em and report back to Admiral Samson." Fox waited for Meyers to mount the ladder again before handing him up the first of the three boxes. "We'll also have to hope that Samson scared the shit out of that duty clerk with his talk of national security — because we're going to need a peek at the shipping manifest that was refused." He patted his pocket after Meyers had the third box in hand. "I'm betting that it was sent to the same address as is on the letterhead of these PO's."
He waited for Meyers to come down from the ladder again and then marched smartly with his aide at his heels back to the duty officer's post. "I want the shipping manifests for the last three days, sergeant."
"I'm sorry, but…"
"Don't," Fox got in the man's face nose to nose, "tell me those are classified too. Do I have to ask you to place ANOTHER call to Admiral Samson's office, sergeant?"
"Uh… no, sir," the man backpedaled meekly and pulled open a file cabinet drawer inside his cubicle and extracted a folder. "Here you go, sir."
Fox and Meyers pored over the many manifests until. "Here it is," Fox lifted the document from the folder. "Make me a copy of this, sergeant," he ordered briskly.
"Sir…"
"How do you feel about spending a couple of weeks in the stockade for disobeying a direct order?" Meyers narrowed his eyes at the young man.
"What do I tell MY direct superiors, sir?" the sergeant pleaded.
"Not a damned thing," Fox reminded him, "or didn't you hear what the Admiral had to say?"
The sergeant's face slumped when he realized he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. He quickly ran a copy of the manifest and handed it to Fox without another word.
"I won't tell anyone I saw this, and neither will you. Is that understood?" Fox said in a soft and dangerous voice.
"Yes, sir," the duty officer shuddered and filed the folder of manifests where it had been.
"Good. You remember that." Fox and Meyers gave the sergeant casual salutes and quickly left the facility.
"Hi Daddy!" Deb came through the hospital room door with a big smile on her face.
"Debbie!" Broots saved his work and shoved the rolling table with the laptop aside so that his little girl could sit down on the edge of the bed next to him and get a hug. "I hear you're doing better."
"I'm working on it," she said with a happy sigh as she felt her father's arms around her. "Grandpa talks to me every morning for a long time."
"He's taking good care of you, Sweetpea," Broots smoothed her hair from her face. "So, tell me, what have you been up to besides talking with Sydney every morning."
"I'm going to start working with Mrs. Macy at the library, putting books back on the shelves," she told him proudly. "Grandpa suggested it, and I start this afternoon."
"That's wonderful, Deb," the bedridden man could see the progress that Miss Parker was alluding to in the previous evening's conversation. "At least you won't be so bored now." He looked at her carefully. "Miss Parker also tells me that you and Kevin have gotten closer."
Deb blushed. "Well, yeah…" she answered in embarrassment. "I was kind of afraid of him for a while…"
"From what I hear, you're not very afraid of him anymore," Broots said with a note of authority and disapproval. "C'mon, Deb, spill."
"Geez, Dad! It was just a kiss or two," she scowled at him. "This is just like you were back when I was in high school…"
"Sweetpea, give me a little benefit of the doubt," Broots pleaded with his daughter. "I'm stuck here in this damned hospital and hear about you and Kevin spending a stormy afternoon in the tree house. I care, and I want to know…"
"Miss Parker had a long talk with me, Daddy," Deb informed him. "She was very clear on where she thought I should draw the lines, considering everything that's happened. And Sydney talked with Kevin too. You don't have to worry — we've been properly coached and warned." She shook her head in frustration. "Geez, you'd think we were school children again, rather than adults."
"Sweetpea, you're just starting to get over something pretty gruesome…"
"I know that! But I AM starting to get over it. And Kevin's helping," she insisted.
"Miss Parker told me about what happened when you went home too," Broots told his daughter. He cupped a hand at her cheek. "Maybe you'd better take someone with you the next time you go home to water the back yard."
"I will, Daddy," she promised. That would be one promise she'd have no problem keeping. The thought of going home again now was almost as distressing as the thought of closing her eyes and reliving things again. "Oh, and I went over to Janet's yesterday and saw Karen too. We spent the whole afternoon together — it was great! I haven't seen them since…" Her voice dropped off. "How much longer are you going to be stuck here?" she asked plaintively.
"I've got two more weeks in this cast," Broots told her gently, "and then we'll have to see how they want to do the physical therapy. The doctor tells me I'll have to learn to walk all over again — just like a baby. And that's IF there wasn't any nerve damage to the legs." He took her hands in his. "There's a chance that I won't walk again, Deb — that I'll be in a wheelchair from now on."
"When will we know for sure?" Her voice was small.
"We'll know more when the cast comes off and I've had a chance to start on the therapy. Speaking of which, isn't this the day that Sydney has his?"
"He's down with Pete right now," Deb told him. "Will you be working with Pete too? Grandpa claims that all Pete does on his therapy days is torture him — but I can see that he's moving around a little easier on his crutches lately."
"I don't know for sure — we'll have to see." Broots was quiet — thinking about the possibility of never being able to walk again was not one he liked to visit very often.
"You'll be in a wheelchair?" Deb's mind was following the uncomfortable train of thought.
"At first I'll be in a wheelchair for sure. Whether I stay in one is what's up in the air."
Deb leaned against her father's chest again and sighed as the arms closed around her again. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. Her Daddy was supposed to be strong and capable — Grandpa Sydney too. She missed the feeling of safety that came with being with her life-long protectors. Then she smiled softly against Broots' chest — she had Kevin now, and he loved her. It might not be the was it was before, but it certainly wasn't ALL bad…
"I have no idea how this could have happened, Miss Parker, but I shall certainly have my people look into it," Congressman Carey's voice came loud and strong through the receiver. "Misuse of Federal resources to harass legitimate individuals or businesses is a serious offence."
"I agree," Miss Parker stated unequivocally. "And I appreciate all the assistance that you can give me in this matter, Congressman. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Miss Parker. You'll be hearing from my office the moment we have information for you."
Miss Parker pushed the End button on her handset and thought for a moment before reaching for the intercom button — only to pull back when she realized that her secretary was down in the cafeteria with Sam and WAS the reason she was making these calls. Instead she dialed the phone company operator. "Connect me with the office of Immigration and Naturalization Services in Washington, DC," she directed in a brisk, ask-no-questions voice.
"One moment please," the operator purred on the other end.
Miss Parker leaned her chin into the palm of one hand as she waited for her call to be put through. Having some kind of payback for being inflexible and not cooperating with the push to restart the more egregious of the research projects for the military had been expected — but she what she hadn't expected was that the first salvo would target relative innocents. The look of fear on Mei-Chiang's face would take a long time to forget — and be one of the things that would be hardest to forgive. Poor Xing-Li had looked almost ready to pass out from terror — she hoped Tyler had the available time to help her recover too.
"Immigration and Naturalization," came a voice after a single ring.
"I want to speak to whoever's in charge, NOW." Miss Parker put every last ounce of Ice Queen chill into her tone that she had. "My name is Miss Parker, and I am the Chairman of The Centre in Delaware, and I just had an attempted raid against some of my legally documented workers by representatives of your agency. I want to speak to someone in authority, and I want to speak to them NOW."
"Yes, ma'am," the operator answered smoothly. "Now let me put you through to Agent…"
"I don't want to talk to an agent," Miss Parker hissed. "I said I want to talk to whoever's in charge."
"I'm sorry, Miss Parker, but its against policy to…"
"I don't give a damn about your policy!" she let her voice get lower, more dangerous. "I have already been on the telephone with my congressman, and I have the ear of several Senators if I want them. I am NOT the kind of person you want to screw around with."
"Just one moment," the INS operator said and put her on hold. Miss Parker sighed. The rules of bureaucracy were almost as inflexible as steel, she knew. It would be a good test of just how much pull The Centre had in Washington to see whether she could bluff and growl her way through the red tape after all.
A click told her someone had picked up the line. "Miss Parker, my name is Evan Carlton. What can I do for you today?"
"Are you the man in charge?" she demanded.
"If you told me your problem, perhaps I can direct your call more effectively," he said, not missing a beat.
"I don't have the time to screw around talking to first one agent and then another," Miss Parker hissed. "I want to know by what right your officers come marching into my headquarters of The Centre and attempt to arrest two of my most valuable employees for being undocumented when I JUST went through all of the effort to rectify the matter legally with you folks. I want to know why your officers refused to accept the proper documentation when presented, and continued to try to remove my employees. And I want to know where the report that began this fiasco came from."
Obviously Carlton had at least heard of The Centre. "And your position at the Centre is…" he asked, obviously taking another report.
"I'm the Chairman, you idiot!" she bit back. "Your men attempted to walk out of here with my executive secretary and that of my Executive Assistant. I am not going to be content with platitudes — I want to know how this happened, who instigated the raid and who is responsible for officers not honoring official documentation when shown."
"Miss Parker, please. If you will just calm down…"
"I will NOT calm down, you insignificant insect! I had two INS officers literally in my outer office disrupting my ability to do my job for no good reason." Miss Parker allowed some of her fury to finally erupt. "Let me talk to your supervisor."
"Yes, I think that might be wise," Carlton agreed and put her on hold again.
As she waited, Sam knocked and stuck his head through her door. She held up a restraining finger to prevent him from saying a word. "I'm looking into it, and I'll let you know the moment I have anything. Is she OK?"
Mollified, Sam nodded and pulled back, closing the door as another click came on the line. "Miss Parker, my name is Elliot Van Deisler, and I am the Director of INS. I understand that there has been a problem with some of my officers entering your place of business?"
"That's right," she snapped, no longer in any mood to be soothed or patronized. "I will explain the situation one last time, and then I expect to get some answers from you." She slipped her chin into her hand again. She REALLY didn't have time for this…
"So what are we going to do now?" Burns demanded the moment the last of the ad-hoc committee had settled around the little table at the back of the deli. "Unless we farm Veracity out to another of our R&D firms, it's dead in the water. The Centre has the scientist who has running the show sewn up tight, and now the police there have our operative in custody from his trying to break into her home last night."
"Relax," Phil Baldwin said in his usual soft tones. "I've started putting pressure on the Centre itself, and I did some research into key personnel working there to see what other ammunition we have to work with. The new administration certainly doesn't have as much juicy material to work with that they'd just as soon keep under wraps, but that doesn't mean…"
"What do you mean, you started putting pressure on the Centre yourself?" Jackson demanded. "We were going to do the research and wait for contacts with the scientists involved to either fly or crash before we did anything."
"It wasn't much — I just traced down a couple of Lyle's old Chinese cuties still on the Centre payroll and sent INS after 'em," Baldwin crowed. "Lyle used to keep them undocumented so that when they disappeared…" he could see the looks of revulsion at being reminded of what Lyle used to do. "The Centre's been a busy place lately — nicely up in the air enough that I seriously doubt that they've corrected the error…"
"Don't be too sure of that," Canfield shook his head. "I was in the barbershop this morning when one of the Delaware congressmen was talking about some woman on the telephone first thing in the morning raising Hell about an unwarranted raid on her offices. He sounded like he might want to look into the matter. If that was you…" He glared at Baldwin.
"We agreed to wait a week before starting anything else," Jackson reminded the NSA accountant angrily. "What else did you do?"
"I talked to some of my associates in the office," Baldwin looked around the table defensively. "I thought…"
"Talk about screwing up!" Canfield shook his head. "We still have the scientist from Black Hole willing to work with us, right, General?"
"My operative was able to get in contact with him while he was abroad at a conference, and unlike Veracity's scientist, THIS one was not only willing but eager to get back to work," Curtis reported bluntly. "I got the call just this morning. So I'm wondering why we can't just make do with Black Hole and leave the Centre alone otherwise? We don't need to cause any more waves…"
"Black Hole and Veracity were the most urgent items we were funding," Burns stated, "but the rest of them were equally important in their own rights. But Doug has a point — we have a solid commitment to resume work on Black Hole. If we continue to hound the Centre, it will put them on a higher state of alert and may make it more difficult to get any genuine progress on Black Hole."
"I can't call back NSA agents without causing questions," Baldwin stated frankly and a little defensively. "And I don't see what harm a little more disruption there will do. For what it's worth, it might cause JUST enough chaos that Black Hole can slip back into action without notice."
Burns turned to Curtis. "Have your contact tell the Black Hole scientist to hold off a bit, until AFTER Baldwin's jumping the gun has run its course and things calm down a bit."
"What about the operative in custody in Delaware?" Curtis asked curtly. "That's the reason I called this meeting, you know…"
"Burns looked around the table. "What do you gentlemen feel? Do we try to salvage this and maybe call attention to ourselves in the bargain, or do we take a chance that the operative knows enough to keep his mouth shut until we can get him out of there with very little fanfare?"
"What the hell was he doing breaking into the scientist's home?" Jackson demanded.
"It's called intimidation…" Curtis explained defensively.
"It's called damned stupid, when one is dealing with the Centre," Canfield shook his head. "These people wrote some of the book on intimidation — and it certainly doesn't include walking into a place where one can be easily arrested. I'm for letting the man hang out to dry until we can get him away without making waves."
"I'm afraid I'm with George," Jackson agreed. "My only question is whether he knows enough to keep his mouth shut?"
"He will," Curtis growled. "I'll make sure he understands the consequences of doing otherwise."
"Phil?" Burns looked at the mousy accountant.
"Even if he didn't keep his mouth shut, it would be his word against ours," Baldwin said with certainty. "Leave him there."
Burns turned to Curtis. "That's your answer then, Doug."
Curtis sighed. "Yeah, it is…"
Kevin watched his mentor head off for the den again and the next long session on his therapy machine, then turned to help Deb pack away the sandwich makings that had provided their lunch. "So, when do you leave for the library?"
"Soon," Deb answered, tucking the lunchmeat in a drawer and replacing mayonnaise and mustard on the shelf. "I really should take off as soon as I finish cleaning up here."
"Where IS the library from here?" Kevin asked, curious. "I've never been inside one…"
"Three blocks that way, then turn left two blocks – about a block closer than Oggie's," she told him, straightening and pointing. She smiled at him. "I'll have to take you down with me one of these days – not that you need any reading material at the moment…"
"Tell me about it…"
"Kevin," Sydney's voice floated from through the den door, "I could use your help adjusting this damned thing…"
"I'll be right back," Kevin smiled at her, and he sped to his mentor's side to make the necessary adjustments in the movement arc that the therapist had insisted upon and then strapped the leg into the device. Sydney settled back into his pillows with a tired sigh and closed his eyes for his nap, and Kevin hurried back into the kitchen. Deb was just finished stacking the plates in the dishwasher and drying her hands. "How long will you be?" he asked, picking up his discussion from exactly where they'd left off.
"I'll be home a little after five," Deb told him, folding the towel and draping it over the edge of the sink. "It's not as if I'm leaving for an extended period, you know…"
"I know," he sighed, following her as she walked toward the front door. "It's just that I've gotten used to having you around again, and then now you're going to be gone."
"I'll be back," Deb repeated with a twinkle in her eye, "but I wouldn't mind your saying goodbye more properly before I go…"
"A more proper goodbye?" Kevin was confused again. He put up a hand to give her a wave similar to the one that he'd seen many of them use.
Deb shook her head again at the gaps in his knowledge and grabbed the hand and dragged him forward so that she could stretch up to kiss him. "A more proper goodbye, you see?"
"Oh! So THAT'S how it's done!" Kevin breathed and, with a smile, wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips down on hers again, delighting when she allowed him to deepen the kiss and pull her even closer. Her arms wrapped around him too and began moving up and down his back over his tee shirt in slow, circular movements that both soothed and excited. Hoping that she'd experience the same pleasure, Kevin's arms began to move in similar circles, and Deb relaxed and pressed closer to him with a soft moan. When they finally parted, both were breathless and had hearts pounding faster.
"I'd better get going," Deb managed as Kevin kissed her chin and then her throat, and then she kissed him again.
Kevin ended the kiss a little more quickly. "Yeah, I suppose you should," he said softly into her ear, making her shiver when he kissed her there too. "Have a good afternoon," he said, burying his nose in her soft hair.
"I will," she whispered back, kissing the underside of his chin and then simply laying her head against the front of his shoulder. "I love you."
"I love you too," he told her gently, finding the simple act of holding her close easily as pleasurable as anything that had come before. "Go on, now – you don't want to be late for your first day at the library."
"I'll see you later," Deb said finally, moving out of his arms and through the front door and casting several long looks backwards over her shoulder as she walked down the sidewalk.
Kevin sighed and walked across the street to his favorite tree and cleared his mind to run through his exercise a few times before settling back into a long afternoon's reading. He had managed to get through only the first few movements when, "At it again, Quai Chang?" sounded mockingly behind him.
"Looks like it, doesn't it?" he responded without stopping the progression of moves.
"I saw you mooning after the blonde cutie," Crystal said in a biting tone. "Wouldn't you know that you have a blonde girlfriend…"
Kevin deliberately refused to respond and kept at his exercise. Crystal moved into his circle of vision and plopped herself down at the base of the tree. "What did you do, piss her off?"
"She's going to work," Kevin closed his eyes in frustration and tried to keep his mind focused on the exercise, then halted and glared down at her when his mind drew a blank as to what to do next. "Listen," he demanded, "Is there something you want from me, or do you just like to bother me all the time?"
"It's a public place," she replied, leaning back on her elbows. "I have as much right to be here as you do." She watched as Kevin stood up straight again and tried to clear his mind to start the exercise over again. "So," she asked finally, just as he was beginning to move again, "what is it about her that turns you on?"
Once again, her question broke his concentration, and Kevin glared at her again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"What is it about her that's so damned special that you don't even want to talk to me?" Crystal demanded. "Have you stopped to consider that I might be a better kisser than she is? That I might give better…"
"Have YOU stopped to consider that the reason I don't want to talk to you is that you make fun of and talk badly about just about everything in my life?" Kevin demanded back. "That all you ever do is criticize and call me names? Have you considered that you don't act friendly – so I really have no reason to consider you a friend?" Kevin walked back toward the street and Sydney's front door.
"Why can't you take a joke?" Crystal asked in a suddenly plaintive tone.
"Why can't you stop trying to make jokes that don't fly?" Kevin tossed over his shoulder as he looked both ways and crossed the street.
"Why don't you give me a chance?" she yelled across the street.
"Why don't you prove to me you deserve one?" he yelled back and then turned to go back into the house.
How could Sydney possibly suggest that Deb might become jealous of Crystal? He didn't even LIKE Crystal!
"It's about time you got here," Stiller snapped at the young sergeant on the opposite side of the table from him.
"It took a while for the General to get a hold of me," the young man explained easily. "I had another task that had to be finished before I was free to come."
"So, when are they going to get me the hell out of here?" Stiller demanded, looking down at the orange pantsuit the police had forced him to put on in disgust. "I want to get out of here, out of these clothes and back to civilization."
"Well, that's the problem," the sergeant answered, keeping a wary eye on a man who technically was his superior officer, but whom he couldn't obey. "The General sent me to tell you that you'll just have to hang tight for a while longer. If he tried to get you out of here now, it would call attention…"
"You mean I'm STUCK here?" Stiller cried in angry desperation.
"I suggest you get a hold of yourself, Colonel," the sergeant said, motioning for the police officer near the door to back away again. "The situation is a little more precarious than it has been previously. You'll need to be patient…"
"YOU try being patient in a six by ten cell, sergeant," Stiller spat quietly. "I was told when I agreed to take on this assignment that General Curtis would see to it that I wouldn't get left behind in civilian custody if something happened…"
"Circumstances have changed, sir," the sergeant reiterated solidly. "General Curtis told me that you would understand – and that I was to remind you of the potential consequences of your lack of patience and cooperation at this stage of the game."
"Right," Stiller snarled. "He can't get me out of this joint, but he feels confident enough to threaten me in it? Just what kind of an idiot does he take me for?"
"I'm not in any position to answer that question," the sergeant answered with a deadpan face. He didn't feel that it would help matters any to report on how the General had waxed eloquent about the apparent idiocy of Colonel Stiller in his presence before ordering him to deliver the message. "All I can tell you is that you are being asked to be patient, and to be quiet. Even as a military officer, in a civilian arena, you have the right to be silent or, if need be, to plead the Fifth Amendment."
"Does the General have any intentions of getting me out of here at all?" Stiller asked, slumping in disappointment just a little.
"The General told me that efforts would be made on your behalf when execution of those efforts would not call attention to the work you've been doing otherwise – or jeopardize other, associated efforts being carried out even as we speak," the sergeant repeated the words without fully understanding them. "I'm assuming you know exactly what he meant by that?"
"I do," the Colonel grumbled. "Tell the General that he doesn't have anything to worry about – I know how to keep my mouth shut."
"Very good, sir." The sergeant rose. "I will leave my card with the duty officer here – if you have anything you need that you think that I can help you with, please feel free to have them get in touch with me."
"Thanks," Stiller mumbled, swallowing back the "for nothing" that sat on the tip of his tongue. The sergeant saluted briskly and then nodded for the police officer to let him out of the interview room. Stiller sat at the table, his head in his hands, knowing himself to have been abandoned and left behind.
Curtis had too much riding on the rest of the work going on to bother with one man ending up behind civilian bars. He should have known – or at least prepared for the possibilities. Mitchell had seen his face the day he'd cut her – the Centre had his attempted break-in on videotape. If he didn't think of something, he was going to end up behind bars for a very long time — and it looked like he was going to be hung out to dry.
There had to be SOMEthing he could do… Considering the quality of the promises made by General Curtis, maybe he had some serious re-thinking to do. Then again, did he really want to see whether or not Curtis had justification for warning him to keep his mouth shut?
Damn!
"You told me that the report would be legit — that it would nail us two genuine, undocumented aliens in a high-profile firm! You lied to me!"
Baldwin closed his eyes in frustration and thanked his lucky stars that he'd remembered to close the office door before answering the telephone this time. "Look, I had good cause to suspect…"
"You don't call INS in on suspicion, Phil," the angry woman's voice shouted into his ear. "My signature was all over that so-called 'anonymous' report. So who's ass do you think is in the wringer right now, jerk-wad? I sent out an enforcement team on YOUR say-so as far as legitimacy is concerned — I could get canned for this."
"Beverly…"
"Don't you 'Beverly honey' me, Phillip Baldwin. Do me a favor — lose my number. Do NOT call me again, you son of a bitch!" The phone was obviously slammed down on the other end of the line, because Baldwin heard a loud crash and then the dial tone.
This was not good. Obviously the Centre was more on top of things even amid their chaos than he'd first estimated. What was more, their attention to cleaning up the messes left by their immediate predecessors stood to cause him a great deal of difficulty when his own associates began to check into the allegations he'd so casually dropped the day before.
He stood and went over to his file cabinet and pulled the top drawer out, and then pushed the hanging files to one side so that he could reach through to the metal box that sat behind all the files. When things started to unravel in this office, they'd be through the place with a fine-toothed comb. It wouldn't do for them to stumble across the carefully-maintained books that kept scrupulous record of the moneys that had been funneled through that office and into checks written to a number of research and development firms.
He opened the box and deposited all the records into his briefcase. It might be a good idea for him to not be at work for the next few days — to lie low until the hubbub over false allegations of Chinese infiltration of the Centre causing a national security crisis had died down a bit. With any luck, the clerical workers that he'd spoken his rumors to wouldn't remember who had made the original statements. But right now, luck seemed to be running against the committee — and he had no intentions of taking any chances. Ending up in a cell next to Curtis' operative was NOT what he had in mind for his future.
Thank God he had a friend he could call as things played out to find out how far up a creek he was. On a hunch, he pulled the card out of his wallet again, picked up the telephone and dialed — hitting an answering machine.
"Harry? This is Phil. The INS raid on the Centre was a bust — the bitch had already seen to getting the cuties' documented. When the NSA swoops in, there's going to be hell to pay if my name is linked. I'm going to ground for a while — I'll be in touch." He hung up the phone and grabbed his sports coat from the back of his chair. He looked around the room at the framed certificates of appreciation and achievement that marked twelve long and fruitful years of service.
And then he was out the door and making his way as casually as he could to the elevators and freedom.
"Do we have a trace on that call?" FBI Special Agent Thomas Gillespie asked his colleague.
"Comes from NSA headquarters in DC," Special Agent Sean McCall replied after gazing at the equipment for a while. "Didn't you just finish up working a case involving the Centre?"
"Don't remind me," Gillespie grumbled. "That's what ended up with me being reassigned here to the DC area after being SAC for the Dover office for three years." He rewound the tape of the conversation and pulled the spool from the machine. "Looks like Fate or Karma or whatever you wanna call it wants to keep me close and involved in the Centre."
"Well, if nothing else, it sounds as if we've had somebody try to use the INS against the Centre and had it backfire," McCall observed patiently. "It might not be such a bad idea to call over there and see just what's cooking?"
"Why is it that every time something has to do with the Centre, nothing is straight-forward?" Gillespie asked rhetorically. "Here we are, investigating a Senator for possible ethics violations or illegal activity, and the trail leads straight back to the Centre again."
"Just file the report, Tom," McCall shook his head. "You're making too much of this. We do the grunt work, and we let the big boys and girls figure out the puzzle — remember?"
"And just what the hell do you think YOU'LL be doing while I'm running clerical errands?" Gillespie demanded.
McCall just blinked at him. "Tracing down the precise location of that NSA office and finding out who would be calling Senator Burns to report that an INS/NSA scam has gone sour and he's bailing for a while," he replied matter-of-factly, "and then putting THAT into the report as well."
"We should probably let someone know to go over to NSA and find out what's cooking there too. If whatever went down at INS really was a scam, and what's going down at NSA is one too, then we have a rotten apple somewhere."
"Better talk to Assistant Director Berghoff," McCall suggested. "He's the one that put us out looking for whatever it is we're looking for — it sure would help if we knew exactly what we were up against."
"That would be nice for a change," Gillespie grumbled more to himself than to his partner and climbed from the back of the van and headed for the car parked a discrete distance away.
Sydney yawned and reached for the coffee mug that Kevin had brought him a few minutes earlier. He took a long and cautious sip of the hot liquid and turned a wary eye on the stack of folders from the newest box. Strangely, the top few folders seemed almost archaic — far older and more worn than were any of the folders that had come before or would come after. He tipped his head and tried to make out the project name on the tab at the head of the top folder, but evidently the white paper on which the name had been printed in a spidery hand had just been handle too often to have much substance to it anymore. At the slightest touch of his finger, the white fell away from the faded manila and floated beneath the daybed where retrieval would be difficult without help.
Sydney sighed and took up the top folder and opened it carefully, then frowned. The documents in that folder were in German — and in old German script at that. Reading the ornate script aloud teased at the edges of his memory, but he had deliberately put all memory of the language from his mind a long time since. He could pronounce the words, but the meaning eluded him. Sighing again with the thought that he'd have to eventually dig out a German/English dictionary to make any sense of this folder whatsoever, he began to close the folder and set it aside. A small piece of onionskin slipped from somewhere inside as he lifted the folder from his lap and landed on his chest. Setting the folder on the table where he'd intended to put it, he reached for the nearly transparent paper.
His eyes were drawn to the signature at the bottom of the short note, and he felt his heart give a hard thump of astonishment and dismay. He should have known — after all, years ago he'd discovered that the man was hiding in plain sight here in the States, pretending to be an optometrist by the name of Zeller in New York State under contract to the Centre. Still, the sight of a note signed "Dr. Werner Krieg" was enough to make Sydney's hands begin to shake and his stomach to turn.
Swallowing hard, he looked to the note itself and was astonished to see that it was in English. What on earth was this little mot doing in a folder filled with documents in German? Sydney's mind sought out a logical solution, only to wish he could discard it in the next moment. Krieg, or Zeller at that time, had been under contract to the Centre. Krieg had been in charge of human experimentation at Dachau during the war. Certainly…
Dear Mr. Parker,
It is my pleasure to report to you that the subjects you wished tested and made arrangements for have arrived and have been assigned into my keeping. You can expect regular reports from me regarding their progress and any test results that might interest you.
Your servant,
Dr. Werner Krieg
Sydney's stomach turned and he had to swallow back the bitter taste of bile. Krieg HAD had contact with the Centre — or at least with the man who had eventually made the Centre what it had been when he'd started working there, a powerful research and development think tank. Evidently this Mr. Parker had arranged for test subjects to be placed in Krieg's tender care.
Sydney set the note carefully aside and retrieved the folder filled with German documents again to began leafing through the pages one by one, looking carefully to see if the names of these test subjects was listed anywhere. Several of the documents were signed by Dr. Krieg — he guessed that they were progress reports on some of the horrific experiments that he himself had been made a victim of as a child. As he scanned the pages, some of the coarse and guttural language his captors had used with the prisoners began to bubble up from the forgotten depths of his mind.
Several times he had to lean back into his pillows and press his hands against his ears. It had been decades since he had shut away all memory of the shouts, the screams, the cries — and the ever-present stench of death. Now it flooded in on him mercilessly, overwhelming his ability to manage his memories.
Closing his eyes and putting hands to his ears couldn't put away the sounds or visions of horror. As if watching a movie, he saw again the open pits filled with emaciated bodies the Germans hadn't had a chance to bury properly and hide before the camp had been liberated. He could hear the rumbling echoes of the carts of bodies being hauled from the cyanide 'showers' to the ovens to be reduced to ash. His nose felt as if it was filled once more with the oily smell of the smoke that poured from the low chimneys and coated everything with a thin film of grease that could never be completely removed. And finally he remembered the feeling of doom and hopelessness as he'd carried out his assigned task of sorting through the stacks of personal effects of the people who'd been gassed and burned for anything of use or value.
As if setting aside something obscenely offensive, he tried to put the folder back on the coffee table, but it fell to the floor from his shaking fingers — spilling papers everywhere. Sydney forced himself to bend as far as he could to retrieve the awful documents — unwilling to let any of them blot the innocence of his den carpet — and then stared at one of the first documents he pulled up. It was an entrance document, detailing the internment of a young boy who had been assigned a number that still was tattooed on his forearm. Sydney blinked and then swallowed back more bile — he was staring at his own entrance document. The document directly behind it was that of his twin brother, Jacob — the numbers assigned to them just as consecutive as the documents had been in the folder.
He took a deep breath and set the entrance documents aside and continued to pull more from the floor. One had flown to a spot almost out of reach under the coffee table, and he saved that one for last. With an effort that almost tipped the CPM machine over, he stretched and finally dragged the paper close enough to get a hold on it. He glanced at it, and then glanced again — then stared at it in sickened amazement.
It was another letter from Dr. Krieg to this Mr. Parker — only this one had been neatly typed in English using the elaborate typeface that belonged to the old German script:
Dear Mr. Parker,
All of my tests have confirmed that the Grüen twins are indeed the kind of individuals that you were interested in. Their intellectual prowess is quite remarkable, as you had predicted. And so, as per your instructions and as soon as I can justify sending them, I shall make sure that they are sent to America to finish their education. The parents and sister have been disposed of, as you requested, so that all emotional ties to family or kin have been severed with the exception of the twin-bond. I have been in contact with your associate in Luxembourg, who is more than willing to present himself as the lads' uncle when the time comes…
Sydney closed his eyes and groaned aloud this time. An associate in Luxembourg — Uncle Fritz? Uncle Fritz had been a Centre operative? Then the insinuation of the brief paragraph struck home.
Setting a pattern that would emotionally deprive young people of their parents, he and Jacob had lost their parents to the gas chambers —apparently not because they were of Jewish descent or had worked in the underground, but because some man at a nascent Centre had put forth a request. They had been turned over to a Centre operative to raise after the war, and then sent on to America to finish their education.
The Centre had interfered and stolen his life, just as surely as it had stolen Jarod's and Angelo's and Miss Parker's — only the hideous truth had managed to stay carefully hidden all this time. The Centre had written the death warrants of his mother, father and sister — and the script under which Krieg had 'educated' them while they were interned at Dachau, and later Uncle Fritz had educated them in Belgium. His whole life was nothing but one betrayal and lie after another — all orchestrated and directed by the Centre. Only now, when it was too late to undo the damage, was he hearing the truth.
Sydney's shaking fingers followed the cord from the CPM machine to the remote and shut the device off, then struggled with the buckles that held his leg firmly to the machine. Once he had himself free of his torture device, he was reaching for his crutches. For once he didn't feel the rush of pain that always accompanied his getting to his feet and putting any weight at all on the knee.
Without a word, he moved through the kitchen and into the garage, into the driver's seat of his Lincoln, and started up the engine. He didn't know where he was going, but it would be somewhere far from documents written in German that proved that he was no better — nothing more — than yet another Centre lab-rat, doomed to spend an entire lifetime running a Centre-directed maze and perpetuating in his turn the evil that had been done him. Jarod had been wrong. He WAS a monster — a carefully conceived and nurtured monster.
It was enough to drive a man mad, he thought as he backed out of the garage and aimed his car down Washington Street.
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