Chapter III: A Garden in the Ocean
The main spire of the Brotherhood of Altadena monastery cast a long shadow over the gravel parking lot as Megan pulled in. Looking out over the monastery grounds through the windshield she unbuckled and let the ignition die. She'd circled the block twice before deciding she was being ridiculous and now that she'd put the car in park doubt was creeping in again.
It was all postcard perfect: a well manicured hedge with bright pink flowers lined a stone walkway up to the gate, several smaller buildings and cottages sprawled lazily across the campus guarding the main church in the center, and the west side boasted a beautiful lawn with stately oak trees that reached strongly into the heavens and then let their branches sigh towards the grass.
She didn't think she could bring herself to go in.
Everything looked too peaceful; the idea of going inside gave her he willies. There were a million reasons she didn't want to be here. Her mother was the one who worshiped on a regular basis, attended confession like clockwork, and harassed her into attending services on Easter and Christmas when she was in high school.
She fought the urge to bolt. Gripping the steering wheel she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the leather head rest. Her breath was ragged, shallow. She didn't have to go in. Larry would never even know she was here.
Besides, the beautiful calligraphy note she'd found slipped under her door pretty much asked for her to grant him some privacy. She should return to her apartment and get some sleep. That would be the most practical thing to do. It would. Or if sleep proved slippery and elusive she could at least unpack her suitcase and start the laundry. Better yet she could catch up on daytime soap operas. Surely there was some fictional character whose life was in shambles she could sympathize with. When was the last time she'd even taken a day for herself? She couldn't even remember. That was probably the reason she needed one.
It was simple. All she needed to do was put her keys back in the ignition, turn the car on, and drive away. It would be an easy escape. And yet she clutched the wheel, paralyzed.
A knock on the driver's side window made her jump and hit the horn.
Through the glass Larry waved at her. After a stunned moment she silenced the deafening horn and rolled down the window. She tried, unsuccessfully, not to gape.
"Megan, are you alright?" he asked.
"You… I… What are you doing here?"
"I'm on a month's retreat. The question better question is why are you here?"
"I came to—I can't believe you're staying at a monastery!"
"Monasteries really do have a woefully dreadful reputation. They are places of retreat, relaxation, and reflection."
"I could use a bit of that myself," she muttered.
"That's what I was given to understand." What? How? "Don called to speak with me a few hours ago," Larry replied to her unasked question. "He said to expect you."
Damn Don and his Big Brother Syndrome! He had the ability to take care of everybody but himself. She swallowed, but knew she needed to ask the question. "Did he give you any of the details?"
"Some of them, but not all."
"So you know about Colby then?"
He nodded gravely. "I never would have foreseen his actions."
"Yeah. Me either," she said as she climbed out of the car and tried not to slam the door. She succeeded probably halfway.
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Not particularly," she said. Larry looked good. Really good. "But I would like a hug."
He held out his arms. "That I freely offer." She slipped into his embrace without hesitation; he felt like home just like her team had felt like family. Past tense. Before she knew it she could feel tears welling up and threatening to spill over on Larry's floral patterned shirt.
"You sure you're alright?"
Was she becoming a human watering can? Larry's print shirt didn't need moisture to grow! She sniffed back tears for the second time that day. That was two times too many in her opinion. "When did you want to talk about feelings?" If she kept this up she'd cry an entire ocean.
"I'll take that as a no, then."
She nodded into his shoulder and he patted her back. Once she'd gathered herself she pulled back and kissed his cheek. "I can't believe you're in a monastery!" she scolded deflecting any further inquiries about her weeping tendencies.
"After six months of celibacy, what's another four weeks?"
That made her laugh. "True."
Slipping her hand in his she allowed him to guide her out of the parking lot and up the cobble stone path up to the gate. He unlocked and opened it wide. He led her inside and directed her to the pink flowered hedge she'd noticed earlier. "I want you to smell these."
"The flowers?"
"Yes, the Rock Roses," he confirmed pointing to the flowers. It may have been a deliberate distraction, but that didn't mean that she wasn't thankful. When did he become the emotionally solid one in their relationship?
They were wrinkly little flowers, delicate with paper thin petals. She leaned forward to get her nose closer. "There's a weak scent there," she said and then inhaled again. "A bit like—" Humm… "like honey, maybe?"
"Just weak?" he asked.
"Yeah, why?"
"I'm trying to unravel some of Kingdom Plantae's secrets," he breathed deeply and sighed. "Their scent is overpowering to me: deep, rich, honey, musk. If there's an earthly ambrosia then those flowers are as close to the nectar of the Gods as I'll ever get. I've been asking all the monks if they can smell them. There's only one other who can smell them like I can."
"Who?"
"Brother Jikai."
"Jikai doesn't sound like a very Christian name."
"That's because it's not." Larry bent over the flowers once more and inhaled greedily. "The brothers have established relations with a Buddhist monastery outside of Kyoto, Japan. He's here on a year long exchange. He tends a beautiful Zen garden here on the grounds."
"I bet you've spent many hours there."
"I will admit to having pondered many of life's mysteries there in the past three weeks," he revealed. "Would you like to see it?"
"That'd be wonderful."
"Come on, then," he said and led her through a maze of paths through the monastery grounds. They passed several monks going about their late morning chores. The sun was radiant, and Megan shaded her eyes with her hand wishing she'd had the foresight to grab her sunglasses when she got out of the car.
Ten minutes and ten thousand rose buds later they rounded the last trail corner and the garden spilled into view. "There are times I feel as if I'm emerging from Plato's cave whenever I come out here," Larry said, "That sounds philosophical, but it's no less true."
The rock and sand garden was housed in a small space, but nonetheless it was spectacular. A small fountain gurgled in the shade of several more oaks. There was a rake leaning against the far white-washed wall which had obviously been used to smooth out the glittering sand around a dozen irregularly shaped, large rocks. The raked ridges in the sand circled each stone and flared out like waves. The stones were the only points of reference in the vast ocean of sand. The large expanse made her feel dizzy; it was as if she would be swallowed whole if she walked through it all and disturbed the pattern. She was too small to even contemplate doing such a thing.
"Stunning, isn't it?" Larry asked jerking her out of her reverie.
"Uhh. Yeah."
"They sweep the sand into a new pattern every morning just after sunrise."
"It's beautiful," she said trying to sound more coherent. "Beautiful and staggering at the same time."
"Thank you. This is nothing to the Ryōan-ji garden, but the sentiment is appreciated." A monk, dressed in a bright orange robe came up beside them. He moved with the presence of a young man even though Megan was positive he was several years older than she.
"Megan, may I introduce Brother Jikai."
"Pleased to meet you," he spoke formally with the wisp of an Eastern accent. It made Megan smile.
"And I you. Can I ask what your name means?" she asked.
"Certainly. Jikai directly translated means 'ocean of compassion.' It is fitting then that I am the one to create and tend this garden. Larry, would you like to postpone our meditation session for later in the afternoon since you have a visitor?"
She shouldn't have come. "I didn't mean to interrupt your plans," Megan interjected. She really shouldn't have come! "I don't have to stay long."
"Your friend would also be welcome to join us," Jikai added.
"Megan?" Larry asked
"I don't have anything planned," she hedged. "But if I'd be in the way then—"
Larry cut her off. "Good, then it's settled. You'll come."
What in the hell had Don told Larry?
So, fifteen minutes later Megan found herself standing inside one of the lesser chapels gazing up at the stained glass windows. They glowed in a rainbow of color and each pane depicted a different scene from the Old Testament. The largest scene was that of Adam and Eve, dressed discreetly in fig leaves, in the thriving, flourishing Garden of Eden. The snake coiled on a lush apple branch. That would be temptation and Genesis then.
What type of apple could have possibly tempted Colby?
What type of apple would have tempted her? Despite the warmth of the room she shivered.
Her heels clicked on the lacquered floor when she deliberately moved on to look at the reed filled panel from Exodus on the left. Her mother had tried, unsuccessfully, to drill the books of the Bible in her head: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus. She couldn't remember what came next. Deuteronomy perhaps? No, that wasn't right.
Larry, carrying his shoes in his hands, came up beside her. "You'll want to be comfortable. Go ahead and take off your shoes."
Brother Jikai, who had unearthed three small, black pillows from a cabinet at the rear of the chapel, agreed. After toeing off her shoes she unbuttoned and took off her suit jacket, leaving her in a light blue sleeveless shell and slacks. Her gun holster was digging into her hip so she removed that as well.
She caught Jikai eyeing it.
"Sorry," she blushed. Here she was with a gun in a church chapel. It was clear he didn't approve of the weapon. "It's an occupational hazard."
"No need to apologize," he said and handed a pillow to her and another to Larry. "Go ahead and seat yourselves while I dim the lights."
Larry strolled to the front near the altar and sat. Megan followed and set her jacket, shoes, and Glock an arm span away. Once the main lights dimmed and Jikai rejoined them she noticed how brightly the candles upon the altar shone.
It wasn't holy per se, but the mood in the room shifted to something more intimate. What mattered was what was inside, not the rest of the world.
Properly seated—legs in a modified half lotus position with her knees as close to the floor as her muscles would stretch—on the pillow she felt like a fish out of water. "What do I do now?" she asked Jikai.
"Zen meditation, or zazen meditation, practices are two thousand and six hundred years old," the monk began. "They have been passed down year after year from master to novice for generation to generation. It's the most vital practice that can be taught. In meditation body, breath, and mind come together as one," Megan had to hide a smile when she realized he lectured like Charlie—all heart and enthusiasm—explaining a theorem near and dear to his heart. "Breathe through your nose and count each half breath you take," he said and in demonstration inhaled. "One." Then he exhaled. "Two. When you reach ten, return to one and begin again."
Meditation was as simple as that? It sounded ridiculously easy.
"Breathe deeply, as deeply as you can, and listen to your inner self. Simply be," he advised her and fell silent. She could already hear Larry's deep breathing next to her.
Okay. She could do this. Inhale. One. Exhale. Two. Three. Four. This is stupid. Megan sighed and realized she'd already lost count. One. Really stupid. Two. Three. Inhale. Exhale. The chapel smelled strongly of sandalwood incense. Inhale. It was a wonderful scent and she took a bigger breath to savor it.
Was she on six? Or was it seven? No, it was six, wasn't it? Argh! Go back to the beginning, Megan.
One.
Two.
Three.
-oOo-
Ever since the reorganization of the Bureau after the September 11th attacks, the Counterterrorism and Counterintelligence Office had, in Don's personal opinion, been stretching and skirting the bounds of legality. True patriots seemed to be in scarce supply. The grapevine said the Director and Deputy Director looked the other way while Executive Assistant Director Michael Dolon got the job done. He may be a relatively short man in possession of an ever-expanding balding forehead, but the handful of times Don had met him he presented the image he could steer the course of the world—and probably often did—in the direction he plotted and desired.
Pity the fool who got in the way.
Dolon had taken possession of one of the spare Los Angeles offices that afternoon for debriefing sessions about the recent events. Don sat just outside the door in the small lobby cooling his heels waiting for an audience.
Don flipped open his phone and scanned through the Caller IDs he'd missed while he'd had his phone turned off: home, home, home, home, Charlie's cell, Naomi Vaughn, Charlie's cell, Charlie's cell. He nearly hit the send button to call Charlie back, but pride stopped him. He didn't need his baby brother to coach him through the day; plus he needed to keep Charlie safe and away from Granger's mess. Later, after the day was over, he wouldn't have a problem venting to Charlie, but not now. He was strong enough to handle this on his own.
He had to be.
The door to Dolon's office opened and the man himself stuck his head out. "Agent Eppes?"
"Yes," Don said looking up.
Dolon replied curtly, "Come in and be sure to shut the door behind you."
Getting to his feet Don hid the phone away; his family was to be off limits. As soon as the door was shut it was clear that Dolon was completely in control. And he was completely pissed. "I understand you were out at the New Heights apartment complex?"
"Yes."
"I came directly from the airport to have you brief me on the situation as soon as possible only to discover you were gone."
Don squared his jaw and tried to regain the ground he'd lost. "I apologize."
"I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for answers. Why were you there and not here?"
As if the man didn't already know why. "Agent Granger's apartment is at New Heights."
Dolon moved to sit behind the desk, which dominated the room, and when he was settled steepled his fingers. "That was a very stupid thing to do. I'm disappointed in you, Eppes."
That felt like a punch to the gut. He'd already apologized once and had it thrown back in his face, so he was too proud to attempt it again. Instead he waited out the Director's scrutiny; he felt like one of his old Academy teachers was about to throw the book at him. For something one of his classmates had done.
"Well?" Dolon finally broke their battle of wills. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing to further aid in the espionage case against him. However, we did get several months worth of the apartment security tapes. I hope we'll uncover something in them."
"You will not."
Don blinked, but managed to hold his temper in check by counting to ten. Slowly. In French. "Pardon me?"
"You will cease your investigation into Colby Granger's personal life. You will personally give the security tapes to me, and in the future you will clear any further investigation through me. Is that clear?"
What the hell? "As mud," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Dolon got up from behind the massive, wooden desk and turned to look out over the Los Angeles skyline. "David Sinclair went with you?" Dolon charged on.
"It wasn't his idea," Don covered.
Dolon turned from the city's vista to look at him. His eyes narrowed, "Where was Megan Reeves?"
"She has today off."
"This was your suggestion?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Was every single decision he'd made in the past two days going to be questioned? He was too used to being in charge and the role reversal was insulting. "She was rattled this morning. Her interview could easily be pushed to tomorrow," Don tried to explain.
Dolon tapped his fingers against his thigh while he pondered Don's answer. "Are you directing the actions of those under your command?"
He looked Dolon boldly in the eyes. "I'm sorry, but are you questioning my loyalties?"
"After your sloppy actions in the past few hours, how can I not?"
Don drew in a deep breath and tried to calm down, but his heart was racing and he could feel himself start to sweat. "I failed to recognize that one of my subordinates was a double agent and that's my fault. I'll take responsibility for it, but to question my loyalty is insulting."
"May I remind you, Eppes, that you're not on very solid ground with me at the moment."
"I am as dedicated to the FBI as I was when I took the oath."
"Then let us move on to the second subject."
"Sir?" Don looked up sharply.
"Taylor Ashby and his alleged Janus List will be kept an internal FBI matter. Agent Granger will be released tomorrow and all charges will be dropped. Ashby was a sad, old man looking to cause trouble. The list he provided is a fake and Granger will be cleared. When he requests transfer papers in the next day or two, you will grant them."
Released? Fake? Transfer? "The man's a Chinese spy!"
"You will grant the transfer," Dolon said firmly ignoring Don's outburst, "with no questions asked. Agent Granger is no longer your concern."
"He is very much my concern!"
"No, he is not."
Had Don dropped into some alternate reality? What was this? Granger was a spy and he was going to walk away completely scot-free, while Don was going to have his loyalty questioned and tarnished.
"I strongly protes—"
"Unless you wish to receive a poor performance review, I suggest you drop the attitude and this line of inquiry. The subject is closed, Agent. Is there anyone else that has heard or seen the list of names besides the agents under you?"
"My brother Charlie and Amita Ramanujan."
"I understand that Ashby went out of his way to speak to your brother, but this is the first mention I've heard of Ms. Ramanujan."
"They were assisting us with the mathematical aspects of the case and they were the ones to crack the password into Naomi Vaughn's voice mail," Don replied.
"You will see they speak to no one and show no further interest in the Janus List?"
"Will that be—"
"I want your word, Eppes," Dolon butted in again.
"I can't speak for my brother or for—"
"Your word." The man was as cold as ice. "I want Professor Eppes, Ms. Ramanujan, and especially Ms. Vaughn kept as far away from the Janus List as possible.
"Then you have my word." Don knew disrespect was dripping from his words, but couldn't control himself enough to dampen it. "Is that all, sir?"
"You may go. We will speak again shortly. Please send in Agent Sinclair."
It took all his years of training and willpower not to slam the door on his way out.
-oOo-
"Operation Falcon's Blessing is a secret, perpetual, officially sanctioned operation to place our spies in strategic locations throughout the world," Victor Westwood began. "It, to quote Sun Tzu, is of vital importance to the State. As you can imagine, Taylor Ashby's compilation of the Janus List, incomplete though it may be, has the unfortunate consequence of undermining several decades worth of work."
Justin Markenson clicked a button and the projection screen shifted from the National Security Agency's eagle and key logo to a Falcon crest. The bird's wings were outstretched and caught in mid flight, his beak turned regally to the right side, and one talon clutched a sharply pointed dagger while the other held an untarnished, golden shield. It was a terrible parody of the Seal of the President.
"The operatives," Westwood continued, "come from many different walks of life: old and young; citizens and foreigners; military personnel and civilians; teachers, engineers, garbage collectors, and ministers. Each agent has a dedication to assuring the United States is protected from its foes. Each came to the program with open eyes and was fully briefed of the consequences. Membership is a lifelong commitment."
"This is an NSA sponsored program?" Charlie asked.
"Of course," said Westwood, "Neither the FBI or CIA have the legal authority to collect foreign data as we do."
"Why me?"
"As we said earlier this morning, you are already inadvertently involved in the case. While, our cryptologists and analysts scrutinize and evaluate the information our spies provide, they are not allowed to know how the information is collected, or who collects it."
Charlie tapped his fingers on the tabletop. His fingerprints left smudge marks on the clean glass. "Who supervises the collection of it?"
"I do."
"Personally?"
"Naturally," Westwood said and flicked a piece of fluff off his suit jacket. A secretary—dressed in a short skirt—entered the room and placed a tray with a pitcher of water and three glasses on the table in front of Charlie.
"Thank you Ms. Bedell," said Westwood.
"You're welcome, sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, that will be fine for now."
"I will bring lunch in an hour." She spun on her three inch high heels and sauntered out.
"Would you like a glass?" Markenson asked Charlie.
Since his mouth was dry and was probably going to get drier the longer he sat and listen he said, "Yes."
Markenson poured out the water, pushed a glass to Charlie, and kept one for his own. Charlie took a gulp; the water was cold and it gave him something to grasp. "I assume you are worried about the list of names being compiled."
"Yes. If, that is, it is widely released."
"I trust you are working on protecting the information?"
"Of course," replied Westwood waving the question and concern away as if it were an annoying gnat, "there are others working on it. However, that is not our primary concern at present."
"Where are we going to start?" Charlie asked.
"You are here to complete an analysis of a worse case scenario. Going forward, if the true Janus List becomes public we will need to protect our spies, cut our losses, and rebuild our network. The time and money necessary for rebuilding will be immense. We wish to identify which of our current spies are the most valuable and then go through the profiles of several likely new candidate recruits.
"Before we continue on to the next slide, I must again stress the importance of not revealing any of what you are working on. To anyone."
"I understand," Charlie nodded.
"Do you?" Westwood's voice was sharp. "No buxom assistants, interfering FBI agents, or family members."
Charlie tried not to grind his teeth. "Yes, I understand," he hissed and took a sip of water to cover his irritation.
"Very well. Markenson, will you retrieve the necessary paper work for Mr. Eppes to review and sign?"
"Yes, sir. It is just outside," Markenson said and scurried out.
While they waited Charlie pulled out his phone to check his messages. He frowned; still no word from Don.
"Expecting a call?" Westwood inquired.
"Half hoping for one," Charlie said sadly pocketing the phone, "but I'm not expecting it. Not anymore." Don had made his choice and Charlie had made his.
Markenson returned and immediately put three documents and a pen on the table in front of Charlie. "The first is a supplementary confidentiality agreement to augment your standing one, the second is the contract for the work, and the final one dictates your compensation." Charlie'd been expecting the contract and confidentiality agreement. He'd had to sign several such documents in the past. They seemed to be pretty standard and everything seemed to be in order.
Well, if Don wouldn't return his calls and clearly didn't want his help, the project Westwood was offering would give him something tangible to do. He would help in his own way. He signed the first two without hesitation, but his eyes bugged when he saw the proposed payment figure.
Westwood must have seen his reaction. "You can see we mean business."
"No kidding," Charlie replied and added the date and signature at the bottom. He offered the pen and papers to Westwood for him to sign to complete the agreement. Westwood's signature was just as much of a scrawled mess as his own.
When Westwood straightened he swept up the contracts and handed them to Markenson. "Markenson will make copies so you can have a set for your records," he said.
"Yes, sir." The man took the papers and obeyed the command like a pup on a lead.
Silence descended for a second time and Charlie resorted to small talk. "Did you have a quick flight from back east?"
"Three of us flew in yesterday afternoon. The thunderstorms over the plains added an extra hour to the trip because of the detour," the man scowled. It seemed like he wanted the weather punished for his inconvenience.
"I've always found it amazing how even a chaotic system like the weather can have such beauty and such order. Weathermen may be eluded by the details, but the general pattern is plainly visible."
"A butterfly flaps its wings, Professor?"
"That's an overly clichéd way to put it, but yes."
"It is also true for spying. Events hundreds of miles away—across the world—have the ability to, and do, impact us."
Markenson came back in the room and handed the originals to Westwood and the copies to Charlie.
"Are we ready to begin?" Westwood asked.
"Yes," both Markenson and Charlie replied.
"Then we shall start with the Agent with whom you are personally familiar: Colby Granger." The screen changed and Colby's face and vital statistics now graced the big screen.
Charlie nearly choked on his water. "I was under the impression he was under arrest for treason."
"Yes," Westwood said as if that was a completely boneheaded statement.
"For being co-opted by the Chinese!"
"We, and Granger himself, have gone to great lengths to see that he would be so seen."
"I don't understand."
"You will," Markenson plopped a heavy stack of papers in front of him. How Charlie wished they were his unmarked essays. "If you will turn to page thirteen we can continue."
Charlie fumbled with the pages before opening to the correct location. He sat in his seat through lunch—delivered by the timely Ms. Bedell sharply at noon—and listened to Westwood and Markenson alternate in describing personalities, backgrounds, and missions.
He hardly ate any lunch as his stomach was churning unpleasantly. This was going to be a huge project. What had he gotten himself into?
-oOo-
"Megan?" Larry asked gently at the edge of her consciousness.
"Yes?" she whispered unwilling to open her eyes.
"Are you alright?"
Her answer was so different from the last time he'd asked. "Yes." She smiled and it felt real. "Give me another moment."
She made sure to savor another full cycle of breath of womblike darkness so she'd be able to remember what peace felt like. When she did finally open her eyes the first thing she saw was Larry standing before her. He offered her his hand.
She took it and he helped her rise.
"Megan," Jikai mused from behind them. "You are indeed strong and capable."
"What?" Megan asked puzzled at the non sequitur.
"Your name," Brother Jikai grinned, "that is its meaning." The man bowed himself out of the chapel leaving her and Larry alone.
-oOo-
When Don unlocked the front door and pulled off his jacket the first thing he noticed was that it was quiet. The second thing he noticed was that there wasn't anything cooking in the kitchen. After the day he had a bit of home cooked food would have been nice: steak, chicken, salmon, pork chops. Something meaty, filling, and comforting.
Just to make sure his nose wasn't deceiving him Don walked into the kitchen. Nope, there was definitely nothing cooking. To add insult to injury there wasn't any beer in the fridge either. Since Liz was gone that meant he wasn't going to get—well suffice it to say it was going to be a long, lonely night.
"Charlie? You here?" Don bellowed.
A second later he heard Charlie's muffled voice. "Out in the garage."
Don headed to the garage. "You wouldn't believe the shitty day I've—" he cut off when he saw Charlie wasn't alone. A man in a nondescript blue suit lounged on the couch like he owned it while Charlie was scribbling furiously on one of his chalkboards. "Charlie?"
"You're here," Charlie said and put the chalk in the tray and dusted his hands off. "Didn't you get my messages?"
"Yeah, all twelve of them." Don couldn't help but feel the mystery man's gaze bore into him.
"You could have returned one of them."
"I was a bit busy today, sorry." He was sure the apology came across half-assed, but didn't care.
"It would have taken five minutes," Charlie scolded him. Don bristled. His superior officers may be allowed to reprimand him, but his brother should know better than to do so in front of a complete stranger.
Biting his tongue to keep back his true thoughts he instead asked, "Charlie, who is this?"
"Oh!" Charlie said as if he'd just remembered something important. He wiped his hands on his jeans leaving white hand prints behind. "This is Agent Markenson from the NSA."
"The NSA?" My god, what in the hell was going on? This was more than a coincidence. Dolon's words about the Janus List disaster being kept an internal matter rang completely hollow now.
"Yes," Markenson said rising from the couch and extending his hand in greeting. "Agent Eppes, correct?"
Don shook the man's hand firmly and looked him directly in the eye. Markenson looked away first.
"The NSA has a project for me," Charlie chimed in once Don released Markenson's hand.
"A project?" He was sure his voice came out an octave higher than normal. He cleared the frog out of his throat. "Will you excuse us for a moment?" Don asked directly to Markenson.
"Of course. Would you like me to step out?" he jerked his thumb back towards the main house.
"No, that won't be necessary," Don said sweetly all but dragging Charlie out of the room with him.
"You didn't need to act like that." Charlie said once they'd left the garage and the oppressive blackboards.
Shrugging off Charlie's concern he asked, "Where's Dad?"
"He went out with Millie this morning. He said he'd be back for dinner."
Don checked his watch. "It's going on eight o'clock."
"Is it?" Charlie went to check his own watch, but stopped when he realized he wasn't wearing one. "They probably got distracted." Don had to resist the urge to throttle his little brother. If he was forgetting the time and forgetting to eat then the situation with the NSA agent was worse than he originally thought. "There's some chicken breast in the freezer. We can make that if you're hungry," Charlie continued brushing past him and heading into the kitchen
"What are you doing?" Don demanded grabbing Charlie's sleeve again to stop him.
"Going to defrost dinner," Charlie said backing away.
"That's not what I mean."
"The NSA came by this morning. They had a work offer for me."
"Doing what?"
"You know I can't answer that," Charlie said and crossed his arms.
"Doing what?" Don repeated making sure to enunciate each word.
Charlie pursed his lips, but said nothing.
"Does this have to do with the Janus List?" Don tried again.
"Leaving aside the fact that I can't legally tell you that. You haven't exactly been mister communication today, what makes you think I should tell you anything?"
"Because I spent the day—" Markenson could probably hear the whole fight. There wasn't anything else for the man to do at the moment. Lowering his voice Don started over. "Because I have a team falling apart at the seams, because I spent the day being dressed down, being told what do to, and having my judgment questioned by a son of a bitch, only to come home to find you doing—doing whatever the hell it is that you're doing—for the NSA! I can't protect you if I don't know what you're doing."
"I'm a big boy, Don. I've been able to take care of myself for a long time."
This line of questioning clearly wasn't working, so he tried another one. "Can you get out of it?"
That took Charlie aback. "What? Why should I do that?"
"Because I'm asking you to," Don pleaded. "This is going to go way over your head really quick. I don't think you're going to be able to handle it."
"And I don't think you've handled the past few days very well."
"Me?" This argument was insane. "I'm not the one working for the enemy!"
"The NSA is not the enemy."
"Are you sure of that?" Don countered. "What did they offer you?"
"Yes, they are paying me for my work."
"I'm not talking about money," Don said and combed his fingers through his hair. "What did they offer you? Wait!" He held up his hands. "Don't tell me. Two agents knocked on door this morning and flashed their badges. They proceed to ask you for your help on some high up, important National Security matter. And because they asked for you specifically you jumped at the chance to prove your superiority."
Charlie uncrossed his arms and tried to put his hands in his pockets nonchalantly. Don wasn't buying it; he'd hit a nerve. And he'd hit it right on. "That isn't what happened," Charlie denied.
"No? I don't believe you." When Charlie didn't reply Don pushed on. "They are using you to get to me. Don't you realize that?"
"Do you hear yourself?" Charlie returned. "This isn't some mastermind conspiracy. It's actually important work. Look, I'm sorry Colby played you for a fool, but don't go taking it out on me. The world doesn't revolve around Don Eppes. They asked for my help. You didn't!"
"Don't talk to me like that!"
"Then don't talk to me like I can't tell the difference between black and white and what's important and what's not," Charlie said, his face blotchy and ugly.
"Forget it. I'm not having this conversation with you anymore."
"You're not staying for dinner, then?" Charlie asked as Don grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
"What do you think?"
"You should have called, Don."
"Fuck you, Charlie! You made your bed," Don spat. "Lie in it."
As he slammed the front door behind him he heard Charlie call out again. "You forget your mail!"
-oOo-