Chapter II: Birds of a Feather

"It's a war."

Charlie watched as Amita flipped the piece of paper over and scribbled a large B- at the top. "What?" she asked absentmindedly and reached for her next exam to grade.

"It's a war," he repeated and sat next to her at the dining room table, "It's a never ending war of attrition."

"How so?"

"The exams, they keep coming and coming and coming."

"I'm sure our students see it that way too." Amita nibbled the end of her pen and returned to her marking.

"This is only your first full of year of teaching. You'll see the light and change your mind." He was in for a long, tedious day. There was nothing exciting about passing judgment on his students' work, especially since he got to see the places where he failed his students. And after the successful failure of the previous case he didn't need the additional reminder of his weaknesses. If the past week had been a test then he wasn't sure he passed with flying colors.

"If you say so. However, I seem to remember being your hapless TA and grading your exams for years."

"What do you say we roll the clock back a bit and you take over again?"

"Not. A. Chance," she said and glared. "I happen to quite like the current status of our relationship." He felt his cheeks warm with a blush and knew he was a fool to even give voice to the irrational suggestion. "Besides we have work to do and," she continued in a lighter tone, "it's not my fault William's mother died last week." Or that we heard Colby's name come out of Naomi Vaughn's voice mail system was the undercurrent.

He moved his gaze to the stack of exams before him; it was nearly paper ream thick. He slid off the paperclip binding the first set of tests together and bent the lightweight metal backwards. "He flew to Virginia." Colby would probably see the inside of a high security Virginia prison cell.

"I know."

"He left me to grade my own exams."

She rolled her eyes. "I know."

"My own TA left me," he moped, tossed the mangled paperclip to the table, and rested his chin on his hands.

"I know." Amita checked her watch. "Don't worry it'll all be over in about six hours."

He lounged back in his chair and figured he should try for charming. "What do you say we take a break?"

"If you bat your eyelashes at me one more time, I'll be forced to take drastic action." She picked up a spare pen, pried open his hand, and curled his fingers around pen. It was cold. "Grade. Or you'll never finish."

Resigned to a fate of red ink, he pulled the top exam off the pile. At least Jeremy Durkin had remembered to write his name on the test. He scanned the rest of the page and a quick glance assured him that there wasn't much else to praise about Mr. Durkin's penmanship. He sighed. Four in the afternoon seemed very far away. It was almost enough to make him yearn for a FBI case and dead body.

Charlie heard the stairs creek behind him and peaked over his shoulder to see his father enter the room with a chipper smile. Uggg! If his father started whistling a merry tune, he'd be forced to take drastic action himself. "Deep into the grading I see." Charlie could hear the smirk in his father's tone of voice. He swore he could.

"Some of us are farther into it than others," Amita replied.

"Hrumph." Without any grace Charlie uncapped the pen and refocused on question one. Let v be an (n x 1) vector….

"He's always like this just before grades are due," his father commented to Amita. Did he have to sound so patronizing about it? Surely he'd grown up from a whiny six year old being told to scrub the dishes?

"Any fatherly advice to make it better?" she asked.

"Do your best to ignore his tantrum."

He wasn't listening. Given an integer k, 1 less than or equal to k less than or equal to n, find a Householder matrix Q such that Qv equals w.

"I'll have to try it." Really he wasn't listening. He was certain Amita was smiling at him fondly.

"If you figure out how to do it successfully, let me know."

She laughed. "Sure thing."

"You don't have to talk about me as if I'm not here," Charlie growled.

"Do you have something you want to add, son?"

"No." He then made a deliberate show of brushing some imaginary fluff off of Jeremy Dunkin's exam before directing his attention to where it should be. It was clear the boy understood the question, but it was also clear that he was sloppy in demonstrating it.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw his father squeeze Amita's shoulder in sympathy as he strolled into the kitchen.

Several minutes—and three undecipherable words—later Alan shouldered open the kitchen door with his hands full of picnic basket. He carried it into the entryway and set it on the coffee table next to the lime green fluted bowl which held Don's mail. It was still full of Friday's unopened letters. His father picked up the topmost letter (it was a noticeably thick one) and checked the date stamp in the corner, as if he expected the mark to tell him his eldest son's state of mind.

Putting the pen and exam on the table he asked, "Did you hear Don leave this morning?"

"Donnie?" His father dropped the letter back into the bowl as if it burned. "No, I haven't seen him since I left you two by the fire late last night. He was gone when I woke up, so he must have left sometime before sunrise."

"When I tried calling this morning I got shunted to his voice mail 'Please leave a message for Don Eppes,'" he mimicked the recording, "'I'll return your call as soon as possible.' He should change the last sentence to 'I'll never return your call.'"

"I got the same message."

"He's probably busy with a million different things," Charlie said trying to find a logical reason for Don's unusual silence.

"Probably." That was hollow reassurance.

"Think we should be worried?"

"A father always worries. He'll come back. He just needs some time to himself for a while."

"Because I'd," Charlie gave a well practiced shrug, "you know, be happy to drive over to the FBI and find him."

"You," Amita thumped his stack of ungraded Linear Algebra exams, "need to grade."

His father simply raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and changed the subject. "You'll remember to feed the fish sometime this afternoon while I'm out with Millie."

Millie. She was the one ultimately responsible for his morning of gloom. Feeding the koi was a task he'd rather avoid in favor of the horrors of poorly worded proofs. "I'm not going to forget about feeding the fish," he muttered, grabbing the pen again and fisting it until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm just reminding you."

"Fine, fine…" Charlie mumbled.

However, before he could immerse himself in the unwanted work of grading, the doorbell rang. Millie—the slave driver—let herself in and knocked on the wooden door jam to announce herself. "Hello? Anyone home?"

His father went to greet her and kiss her on the cheek. "Good morning."

"It's going to be a sunny, beautiful afternoon too," she said eyes alight. "Grading party?" she asked turning her attention to him and Amita.

"No, it's a war of attrition," Amita said deadpan.

"Very droll," Charlie said.

"Did you just call me droll?"

"Me?" he said arranging his expression into one of a perfect picture of innocence. "Can't I just flunk them all and be done with it?"

"No," both Millie and Amita said simultaneously.

"Fine," he huffed, "I'll give them all As. It will be a cause of general celebration throughout campus."

Ignoring him Millie approached the basket and peeked into the wicker depths. "Did you pack the strawberries?" she asked his father.

"Yes."

"And the champagne?"

His father leaned in close to whisper in Millie's ear. "Quiet an expensive brand."

His boss nearly giggled at that reply. "And the ch—"

"If either one of you mention chocolate in my presence I'll have the locks changed while you're away."

"And on that uplifting note, I think we'll let you two unlucky professors get to it. We'll return before dinner," Alan said and picked up their picnic lunch. Millie grinned like a cat with a freshly caught canary. He glowered at his first exam and resisted the urge to tear it to shreds.

Over her shoulder Millie called back, "If all the grades you submit are As, I'll personally sit and watch you regrade them," Millie said.

"What possessed me to go into teaching?" he wondered aloud.

"The lure of the ivory tower and the desire to quash your intellectual rivals," Millie said chuckling as she sauntered outside.

"I told you. It's a war," he told Amita.

"Um hum," Amita folded one of her tests over to the front page and scribbled an A next to her student's name. She tapped her pen on the table and reached for another exam.

"Charlie?" his father asked from the porch.

"Yeah?"

"Don'll call."

He let the tension in his shoulders relax. "Yeah."

"Don't forget the koi." And with those parting words the door snicked shut.

Charlie watched Amita frown at the paper in front of her. He itched to pull a wayward lock of her hair behind her ear. She'd come a long way in the few years he'd known her. When she approached him about the job of thesis advisor he never would have envisioned her transformation from wide-eyed graduate student to a professor in her own right. He also never would have foreseen what she would mean to him. And with their past actions—he'd never refer to that evening as a mistake—far behind them, the change suited her. "We have the house to ourselves now. Wanna take a break?" Giving in to temptation he leaned close and tucked her hair tidy.

"Nice try." Exasperated, she pushed him back gently and checked her watch again. "We get a break in fifty minutes. Grade."

"I'm willing to bet they left some strawberries and chocolate behind. Promise to make it worth my while?"

She eyed him with suspicion. "If you're good."

"Have I ever not been?"

"You have an ego the size of Texas."

"That's not what you sa—"

"Do you really think it would be wise to finish that sentence?"

"Probably not." He turned his attention once again to Mr. Dunkin's atrocious penmanship. Was that a greater than or less than sign? He let the symbols and numbers blur together as he spaced out once more. His brother's work and world were falling apart and here he was held hostage to the petty demands of a grading curve. The roar of the car's engine as it backed out of the driveway jerked him out of his trance. He couldn't do this. He sighed again, pushed the stack away, pushed his chair away from the table, and stood.

Amita focused all her attention on him. "You really don't want to do this do you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

The tension hovered, thrummed, over them, like a Blackhawk helicopter: loud and deadly. How could one possibly concentrate—let alone rest—while the future loomed in ever closer, ever greedy? "There's going to be another fight. I can just feel it."

"And you don't want to fight?"

"Oh, I want to," he said and started to pace. "Oh, how I want to."

"But it isn't your fight right now. It's Don's."

"I know and I don't know how to help."

"If he'd wanted your help he would have retuned your call." It was blunt, but it was the truth.

"That's a fair point," he allowed. "What gets me is that even if he did want it there isn't some radical new algorithm we could apply to solve the mess Colby left behind."

"We?"

That stopped him short. In Larry's absence he hadn't realized before this moment how much he expected her to always be there whenever he needed a sounding board. "If you're willing that is. Two is always better than one."

"That it is," she said smiling as the strand of her hair fell forward again. "Charlie, you know I'm willing to give any help you need, right?"

"Of course."

"Even if it's just listening?" He nodded and she continued. "Do you feel guilty for uncovering Ashby's Janus List?"

"No! Yes. I don't know," he shoved his own hair out of his eyes. "Do you?"

"Honestly? I haven't let myself think about it. I'm sure I will after I've managed to get this semester's grades in and allowed myself to process everything."

That explained why she'd been riding him about starting his grading. "He specifically asked for me. He wanted me." He thumped his chest for good measure. "There's no way Taylor Ashby didn't know how the members of Don's team coincided with his List."

"You may be brilliant, Charlie, but you aren't the only mathematician in the world."

"But I'm a damn good one."

"There's that ego resurfacing."

The doorbell interrupted his pacing.

"You expecting anyone?" Amita asked.

"No." Thorough the glass he could see two suited men with firm, grim expressions. One held a bulging black leather briefcase and the other had his hands in his pockets so his gun couldn't be missed. He groaned. This didn't look good.

"Who is it?"

"Trouble." He unbolted the front door.

"Professor Charles Eppes?" the man on the right asked. No, this was definitely not good at all.

He plastered a smile on his face, which he hoped was at least remotely inviting. "Yes. And you are?"

"Agents Westwood and," he gestured to his partner, "Markenson with," they both flashed their government credentials, "the NSA. We understand you've done some high security work for us in the past and, additionally, are familiar with the Taylor Ashby's so called Janus List."

That wiped the forced smile off his face right quick. "I am familiar with the Janus List, yes." He felt rather than saw Amita come up behind him. It may have been shallow, but he wasn't going to go out of his way to make them welcome.

"May we come in?"

"Will that be necessary?"

Westwood didn't even miss a beat. "We can talk here if you'd like—it would be fitting as Janus was also the god of gates and doorways—but as this is a matter of national security, I'd prefer to conduct our conversation indoors and out of the heat of the sun since the weather service is predicting near record temperatures. May we come in?"

Charlie said nothing as he swung the door wide and stepped aside to allow the men into his home. This was the beginning of more than trouble and he was sure it wouldn't end well. They proceeded to make themselves at home in his living room. Markenson put the briefcase down on the floor next to the couch.

"This is Professor Amita Ramanujan. We," he gestured to Amita, "were just finishing up some end of the term grading."

"In college I always figured my Profs just threw darts to assign grades." Westwood said and looked Amita up and down.

"Now there's a thought," Charlie said under his breath.

"It's a thankless task," she shrugged and shook their hands. Even Markenson eyed her like she was a bug to be squashed under a shoe.

"Professor Ramanujan, do you—"

"Dr. Ramanujan," she cut in.

"Dr. Ramanujan," Agent Westwood amended moving his gaze from her breasts to her face, "do you have the same level of security clearance as Dr. Eppes?"

"I'm sorry, I don't."

"Amita's assistance was invaluable while I worked on decoding Ashby's work," Charlie cut in trying to ease the discomfort in the room. "She's deep in the application and background process for security clearance."

Markenson wasn't impressed. "But it isn't completed, is it?"

"No," Amita said to the floor.

"If your questions are at all related to Ashby's Janus List then you should know Amita has full clearance for that. The FBI granted it," Charlie added resisting the urge to step in front of Amita to protect her.

"We understand." Westwood replied, "However, we're also quite positive that the NSA has not granted it. Furthermore, this situation is going to require the utmost discretion. Ma'am would you excuse us for a moment? It's for your own protection."

"No problem. I'll be in the yard," Amita murmured to Charlie as she passed.

Westwood made no attempt to conceal his interest in Amita's legs and backside as she went out into the backyard. The man let out a low wolfish whistle. "I wish I'd had university professors like that…"

"What is it I can help you gentlemen with?" Charlie crossed his arms across his chest and made sure to plant his feet firmly in order to give himself the illusion of control.

"We need your assistance," Westwood began, although it was apparent it galled him to have to ask in the first place. "As you know the FBI forwarded the names on Ashby's Janus list to various departments and agencies: the NSA, Homeland Security, the Pentagon."

"I was aware, yes."

"We believe the list is a fake."

"You mean it isn't a list of international spies?" Charlie asked skeptically.

"Spies yes. However, it isn't a list that could do a lot of damage."

Charlie wasn't sure he believed that, but if the man was lying through his teeth then he looked pretty confident about it. "But it could still cause damage?" Charlie asked thinking of the little Don had told him about Colby's confession.

"Some yes," admitted Westwood, "but that's not what interests us. We," he stressed the word to imply more than he and his deputy, "believe Ashby intended to pass this list as a decoy."

Charlie snorted. "He went to an awful lot of trouble to hide this list for it to be a decoy."

"That is not what concerns us." He motioned to Markenson and the briefcase.

"Yes, sir," Markenson opened the briefcase, pulled out a manila envelope, which he gave to his superior, and a sheet of paper, which he offered to Charlie. He took it reluctantly; it felt heavy, far heavier than the exams on the other side of the room. "It's the list of—"

"I recognize the names and country affiliations."

"I'm sure you do," Westwood replied sliding out a packet of papers from the envelope. He handed this to Charlie. "This is a list of names of people who we know for a fact are spying against the United States. Most, but not all, of them aren't included in the Janus List and as you can see it is extensive."

It was. As Charlie leafed through the packet he could see that each page featured a name, a biographical sketch, several paragraphs about the deeds and deaths the individual was suspected of committing, and the actions taken to neutralize the peril they posed. There were no pictures and he was relieved things were kept in black and white text so he was unable to match a face with a name. "What do you need me for?"

"We wish to put together a threat assessment of the damage that could be done to our spy program if the true Janus List were to be released to the international community. In conjunction with the threat assessment, we will also require a list of the most advantageous replacements."

"But this packet wouldn't help to determine such a list."

"Correct."

Puzzled Charlie asked, "They why did you—"

"So you can see what you're fighting against," Markenson replied as if he were trying to convince himself of the validity of his words.

"We'd like to impress upon you the utmost necessity for security. No family members or collegiate colleagues may know the true nature of this case. We'll let you browse that packet for an hour. When we return you can either decline the offer, or we'll escort you to our offices where we'll be happy to brief you in more detail. Do you understand the terms as I have presented them to you?"

Did he understand the terms? Could the man use more convoluted language? "I understand," Charlie said flatly, feeling the weight and power of what he held in his hands.

"No one, Professor Eppes." And with that Westwood retreated to the front door while Markenson reclaimed the briefcase.

"One hour."

"One hour," he echoed as they left. Alone, he dumped the packet of information on the table next to his ungraded exams. Only then did he bend his head and allow his shoulders to slump.

He'd always known he had a moral obligation to assist, no matter how rude the two NSA agents may have acted. He'd worked for jerks in the past and would undoubtedly work for many more in the future. He took in a deep breath. It was time to make his apologies to Amita.

He found her standing by the koi pond's edge and bathed in bright sunlight feeding greedy, openmouthed fish small crumbs of food. A light breeze brushed her hair slightly and even though the grass muffled his approach, he saw her tense.

"Are you alright?"

She tossed a final handful into the water, brushed her hands together, and wiped them on her jeans. "They gone?"

"They'll be back in 'bout an hour." She still wouldn't look at him directly and instead watched the fish gulp at the surface. They seemed to be struggling to reach something they could never reach, never understand, but it didn't stop them from trying. "Agent Westwood was out of line."

"I'm fine, Charlie," she replied still watching the koi finish their meal. "It isn't your job to protect me."

Silently he disagreed because it was, but he was smart enough not to voice his opinion. Instead he decided to wait her out. A bird's shadow—a hawk's significant shape—passed over the rippling water. The bird was circling, hunting for easy prey. Another warm breeze ruffled the treetops…and her hair. He was always entranced with her hair. Eventually, the fish gave up gasping the air.

When she looked at him there weren't tears in her eyes, but their easily could have been.

"The man's an ass," he said.

"No kidding. That won't be the last time someone doesn't take me seriously because I'm a woman," she shrugged. "It certainly wasn't the first."

He couldn't offer her false comfort or false platitudes, so he offered her the comfort of his presence instead. He reached for the tin of fish food—it smelled worse every time—and dumped a handful onto his palm. As if there was a siren, the koi returned. He tossed the food in and they watched the fish gobble and gorge. When the surface was calm Amita slipped her hand into his and in unspoken agreement they walked back to the house.

When they made it inside, Charlie had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the house.

"Guess you won't be leaving anything lying around this time," she said eying the top secret branded packet of paper.

"Guess not."

Amita didn't say anything further and instead started to collect her things.

"Look I'm sorry. It's a huge task and I plan on asking them if you'd be able to assist me."

"Stop," she bristled and put her fingers to his lips. "They don't want me. They asked for you. They want you." It hurt more than it should to hear his own words parroted back to him. "You're the master; I'm the apprentice." Was that bitterness or acceptance? "Charlie, I understand. Really I do," she added when she saw the expression on his face. "You already have the necessary clearance. I don't."

"I'd have you help me if I could."

"I know. I probably shouldn't have peeked over your shoulder last week and nosed into your brother's case. It was your work. Charlie, I…" she groped for words and piled all her exams and test keys into a messy stack and thrust the collection into her backpack, "I have work of my own to do."

"I'm still sorry."

"Let it go."

He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, but seeing her tense he stopped. He didn't need to be punched. She made haste towards the door, not even glancing at him. She didn't exactly slam it, but he winced all the same.

Charlie sat down heavily like Atlas with the world on his shoulders. He didn't need to add another god to the mix, Janus was enough he thought wryly. It looked like he wasn't going to start his grading after all. It was funny how a previously mundane task now suddenly looked like heaven. With one wistful look at the closed door and another out the window to the backyard, he buckled down and got to work reading about the man on the first page, Mr. Ta-Ming Wang.

When Westwood and Markenson pulled their unmarked vehicle into the driveway forty-five minutes later, Charlie was already waiting on the front porch. The hawk still circled and the cloying fishy scent still lingered on his hands.

It would be a long time before it came off.

-oOo-

The New Heights apartment complex was inappropriately named; New Lows would've been more apt. Scattered fast-food debris decorated the parking lot, a security camera (they were going to have to examine that footage) followed their approach into the main building, there was no pool, and when they entered the empty reception area the phone behind the desk was ringing incessantly.

Maintenance had also neglected to purchase new hall lights and one of them cast a sickly-green light down the hallway outside number 113. Don wasn't having any luck with lighting today. Furthermore, the high pitched whine of the air conditioner next door sent Don's headache into overdrive.

"You get any sleep last night?" David asked as he jiggled the key into the lock. It stuck.

"No." Don rubbed his temples again. "You?"

"Enough," David said and pushed the door open with his shoulder.

A man's home was his soul and, door now wide open for inspection, they walked into the private world of Agent Granger. David flicked on the light.

It was a sparse one bedroom apartment with a living room just big enough for a three seat sofa and an even smaller kitchen. No plants to water. No fish to feed. It reminded Don of his own apartment. This was a resting place, but it wasn't home; home life would always take second place to work life. Col—Agent Granger got a double dose of that in the Army Special Forces and again with his job with the FBI. Don was lucky enough to escape to his childhood home; Granger had escaped to the Chinese.

Time to paw though the man's sorry life.

The apartment may have been a dump, but it was neat. Too neat. "He has a maid service come in to clean, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, but they come Wednesdays."

Don looked at him askance.

"He always complains about them moving his stuff around," David elaborated.

"Right. I'll take the bath and bedroom. You take the living room and kitchen."

"Sure," David nodded.

In the bathroom's mirrored medicine cabinet he found a bottle of prescription sleeping pills and, ironically, a bottle of Aleve, but no secret Chinese battle plans. Frowning Don opened the bottle of Aleve, snagged two, and drowned them with a paper cup full of water. He didn't linger on his reflection once he'd closed the cabinet.

The bed was made with military precision. Did he know when he left in the morning he wouldn't be sleeping in it the following night? The gentlemen's magazines tucked away in the nightstand table were the only thing remotely suggesting deviancy in the whole room. And Don could hardly fault him for it. There wasn't any dirty laundry stuffed into the closet, instead there were rows of suits and a rack of ties. The man even hung his jeans neatly.

A shoebox, partially hidden behind a Cardinal's baseball hat, had been shoved to the back of the top shelf. He pulled it down and took off the cover.

Inside were newspaper clippings, a silver Lieutenant status bar, old army pictures in which Dwayne was prominently featured, as well as various combat medals and commendations. The green, red, black, and white striped Afghanistan Campaign Medal gave him pause for a moment, but Don shoved his unease away as quickly as it surfaced.

On the very bottom there was a whitish-grey feather.

Don took it out and rippled the fibers down and then smoothed them together. Why would Granger keep a ratty, old feather inside a shoebox full of Army memorabilia? He closed the shoebox and started to put it back in the closet, but something stopped him. Thinking better of it he put it under his arm and went to find David.

Walking through the kitchen he glared at the dentist's reminder postcard stuck to the refrigerator with a pizza advertisement magnet. There was also a note reminding of an appointment with a Dr. B. at 6pm on Tuesday. He flicked the note and frowned. The headache drugs could kick in anytime. There was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink which made Don feel a tab bit better.

Normal. Normal. Normal.

The message light on the phone flashed. Don hit the button, but all that played was static. Flipping through the caller ID screen Don noted there hadn't been a call received since Thursday two days before and the name listed was "Security Screen." Not very helpful.

David had been rummaging through the desk. "Find anything?" Don asked glancing at a set of well used golf clubs that begged to be taken from the corner.

"An old checkbook, which I might add is balanced to the penny," David held up a bank booklet. "And crumpled restaurants receipts." David held those up too.

"Not much in other words."

"Nope."

It was probably too much to hope for unexplainable bank statements from a Cayman Island bank.

"What'd you find?" David asked seeing the shoebox.

"Just a shoebox filled of old memories," he said, lifted the lid, and set it on the desk next to the laptop David had just pried open.

"Should we take the laptop in, or do you want to try and crack the password?" Don asked David.

"Let's try," David said and reached over to boot it up.

Don sat down in the chair while David tried to pace a hole in the shabby carpet. When the logon screen appeared Don asked, "Do you know the password?"

David thought for a moment "FalconFeather2002. Capital Fs. All one word."

It worked; Windows chimed annoying welcome music and the cursor changed to an hourglass. Don made a mental note to change his own password.

"Know the story behind it?"

"He once told me it was his flight to freedom."

"Freedom from what?"

"Don't know."

The computer didn't reveal any of Colby's secrets either and after a half an hour of fruitless searching Don powered it down. They could take it into the office for further investigation, but he had the hunch that nothing would pan out. While he was guilty of spying for a hostile country, Granger wasn't stupid. Something was missing here.

David echoed Don's thoughts aloud. "I'm beginning to think we're missing something."

Don eyed David. "Like?"

"Location for one. I've been in here a hundred times. I've watched football games here on Sundays. If Colby were a spy for the Chinese he would have been smart enough not to hide things where I would have seen them. Motive for another."

"Motive? You're questioning if he isn't a spy? You were about ready to take Granger's head off Friday night."

"So were you."

"Why are you suddenly trying to justify treason?"

"I'm not. However, you have a lot of time to think while you are staring at the ceiling fan trying to sleep."

David had been closest to Granger. It made sense that he'd eventually try to maintain the bonds of friendship. "You just don't want your friend to truly be a traitor and a spy?"

"No. But you need him to be, don't you?" David shot back.

Don winced.

"Sorry. That was uncalled for. I know the situation is atrocious, and yes, I find it surreal that we're searching Colby's apartment, but all I'm saying is that the situation doesn't add up. For someone who lived the life he did," David reached into the shoebox, pushed the feather aside, and pulled out the Afghanistan medal, "it's hard to imagine he'd fold like a puppet." David dropped the medal back in the shoebox. "Which is what he did last night."

"You're being awfully generous to someone who admitted he voluntarily worked for the Chinese. So now you've had this epiphany and think there's nothing wrong with Granger's actions?

"I'm not trying to be generous. I'm trying to understand the situation. There's a lot wrong with his actions, but I also think there's been a lot wrong with our actions," David said reluctantly.

"You're taking the blame from him and putting it on us?"

"Think Don, he told us exactly what we wanted to hear. After he admitted what he admitted, would any of us have listened to why he did what he did? I certainly wasn't in any frame of mind to do so."

"He knew we'd caught him red handed about to murder the reporter so he could save his own hide. He didn't have a choice," Don countered.

"He never gave an answer to why he did what he did. We didn't ask. What if he was moving her out of the fire zone? Would any of us have listened?"

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying if he knew his name was on Ashby's List then he knew that Charlie would eventually uncover it. I'm saying he knew Naomi Vaughn didn't know anything, so there wasn't a point for him to kill her. I'm saying it was in his best interest to cut and run long before he was a suspect, but that he stayed. I'm saying we don't know anything more about his motives than when we questioned him. And when we questioned him, he told us exactly what it would take for us to put him in custody."

"You want to talk to him again, don't you?"

"Yes."

"No. No way!"

"He may have been stressed, but he was in complete control of the situation last night. We did what he wanted. And none of us asked him why!"

"We're not going to do this now," Don snapped.

David looked away and said nothing.

"I think we've been here long enough. He knew we'd search the place," Don said on the way out the door. "There isn't anything here."

David grunted in agreement as he locked the door behind them. Neither of them spoke on the way back to the office.

-oOo-