PASTOR TIM AND ALICE

"I had the strangest visitor, today, Alice….," Tim began. "That FBI guy from the Jennings, Agent Beeman. Their neighbour."

Alice was holding her swollen, pregnant belly as she looked at her husband, "I told you something was going on between the Jennings and him!"

"No, Alice," Tim said, trying to recover, "that's not it."

"Isn't it?" Alice insisted. "An FBI agent next door, Tim? Counter Intelligence, that's 'spies' Tim." Alice took a few deep breaths to do with the baby, then added, "I'm telling you, that FBI agent knows. He may even be 'running them', that's what they call it on T.V. anyway."

A WEARY STAN BEEMAN

Amador, Nina, Gaad. All dead. Somewhere in there, Beeman's wife had left him. Then there was Burov. Knowing what seemed to be happening to everyone around him, he did not want Burov on his conscience, either. So he cut ties, told Burov that they would never see each other again. That was not to last the week.

Ever since the split with Sandra, Stan Beeman had few people he could confide in. Hell, even before the split, that had been the problem - precious little about his work was subject matter that he could bring home.

So, before the dinner for seven, Stan found himself in a familiar place - a refuge of sorts for him apart from work.

Where was he? Across the street at the Jennings. It was not that he actually chose times when Philip had been home alone, but this time he did. Philip was the one - maybe the only one - that Stan felt he could open up with. That had been what Special Agents had been advised to do! Cultivate at least one friend outside of The Bureau.

So there he was, Stan opening up about his old boss's murder in Thailand. The story was that it had been a robbery in Gaad's hotel room, but as Stan had told Philip, "I don't buy it. I think it was the Soviets. They're animals."

Maybe it was Stan's weariness over the events of the past couple of weeks - both personal and professional - a weariness that caused him to ignore yet another of those intangible 'somethings' that attached themselves like a mind-virus to Stan's hunch-machine.

Philip's reaction? Stan drowned the hunch about the way Philip had listened, which he had not done with Martha, when he and Aderholt had decided to pay her extra attention. That extra oomph with her had been a pure hunch, a 'something', an intangible that even took Dennis a while to sign onto.

This one? It had been with Philip sipping a beer and Stan with a whisky, right there in the Jennings' living room, where both the guys had shared so much since they'd met, three years' previous. Stan had never had a friend like that, not since high school.

BACK WITH ADERHOLT

Then Aderholt spoke up at the office - he had been reviewing the files about Martha Hanson. Although Dennis would be the first to admit that Beeman had outshone him in hunches - the piece of paper in front of him had an intriguing set of circumstances.

Aderholt asked Beeman if he remembered the day that Agent Gaad had gone 'batshit' on the mail robot. He had, who could forget! Yet while Martha had covered for Gaad on that, the repair facility had reported a 9-1-1 call to do with the death of the owner's mother, Betty Turner. The death had been called, 'natural causes'.

Aderholt said, "look, we're nowhere with anything. What I learned at Quantico was… lessee, what did they call it. Oh yes, a lead." Beeman assured him he knew where he was going with this. The two of them agreed to go down to the repair facility and at least ask questions - maybe put a camera on the mail robot itself, just to see who is attracted to it - maybe in off hours.

Aderholt then held up another piece of paper.

"Stan, you want another one?," Aderholt said, handing it to him. "Even more of a longshot?"

Beeman read the police report that Aderholt gave him. "Dennis, is this part of the Martha-file?"

"Nope," said Aderholt. "But look at the location of the parking lot where the dead guy was found - found with a knife in his neck."

Beeman read the location, the cross streets in Arlington, "South Four Mile Run Drive, and South Oakland Street. Doesn't ring a bell, Dennis."

Dennis leaned back and said, "it's a stone's throw from the Food Pantry, the place that Reed Street Church runs in Green Valley of Arlington."

Beeman's patented hunch-meter, it was not even twitching on this one. "C'mon Dennis, you're saying that someone from Reed Street Church is knifing homeless guys? Pastor Tim as Jack the Ripper?"

"Look, Stan, a couple of days ago you were all bent out of shape about a meal you'd had with the guy - at the Jennings." Dennis took the police report back, "it says here that the guy's buddy, who at one point said had been with him in the parking lot, is now saying he wasn't."

"Ok, Dennis, you win. I'll talk with the Arlington police. Maybe even talk with the guy." Aderholt put his finger on the place in the report that recorded the surviving guy's name. It was simple enough.

This one had the added bonus - for Stan Beeman - of scratching the itch about Pastor Tim, his wife, and the weirdness of that dinner for seven.

ARLINGTON POLICE STATION

"I've got rights," the man across from Beeman protested. "I want a lawyer!"

"Look, fella, you don't need a lawyer," Beeman said, quite agnostic about the guy's actual rights. "You're not suspected of anything."

"Can I go?"

"Sure, you can go," Beeman said, calling the guy's bluff.

Once Stan said that, the guy calmed down. He said, "you're FBI? What's the FBI doing with the Arlington Police? I have a few complaints I'd like you to take care of."

Beeman said, "I could see what I could do, but I want to talk about the death of your friend - a couple of nights ago, in that parking lot by the Food Pantry, on South Oakland Street."

"I had nothing to do with that!"

"No, I know," Beeman assured him. "I read the police report. Your friend was killed by persons unknown. Despite you being the last to see him alive, you may be the only one they don't suspect."

The two men sat there in silence.

Eventually Beeman said, "you know, I am good at hunches. One hunch sitting right in the back of my brain is that, yes it's true, you had nothing to do with the killing." Beeman paused, then continued, "but I think you saw it go down." Beeman leaned forward, said, "Who are you protecting?"

"Nobody."

Beeman leaned forward further to survey the mans face. "How'd you get those bruises?"

"I fell," the man said. "I was on a bender."

"Do you use the Food Pantry, the one that Reed Street Church runs?"

"I've been in there, sure. But I'm no scrounge. I pay my way."

Beeman paused trying to find the right question which would get the fellow talking about the parking lot.

Beeman pulled out a picture of Pastor Tim. "Is this man, was he in the parking lot that night?"

"What is this," the guy said. "That's the pastor. No, he was not in the parking lot!"

"Okay," Beeman said smiling, "that's what I'm talking about. So you were in the parking lot!"

"I want a lawyer."

"Look, friend, I'll get you one if you need it." Beeman leaned forward again, "take it from me, you don't. All I want to know is what you saw. Then I'll leave you alone."

There was a moment's silence. "Two women," the guy said. "Small chicks, 5 foot 3, five foot 4. We asked for some cash, one of them attacked my friend. Took his knife. Put it in his throat."

Beeman said, "you're telling me a 5 foot 3 woman killed your friend with his own knife?"

Beeman said to the guy that an Arlington police officer was going to be in, in a minute. Beeman told him that he was going to repeat everything he'd said to the cop.

BACK AT THE C.I. OFFICE

While riding the elevator to the C.I. office, Beeman wondered what he had. The whole thing about Pastor Tim, his wife, the dinner - it was going cold.

This time Beeman passed by Aderholt's desk without saying anything. Going straight to the stack of pink-phone-message slips, he leafed through them. One caught his immediate attention.

It was from Burov. Coded, with a location.

Meeting Burov later that night, Beeman was handed a scoop, right on a platter. Burov, the technical advisor within the Russian Rezidentura, was concerned that his government was developing scary chemical and biological weapons, without the accompanying safety infrastructure. Faulty threads on sealed containers, that sort of thing.

Fast forward to Aderholt and Beeman sitting vigil at a quarantine facility, looking down on the dying William Crandall, which was not his name. Crandall was an embedded Soviet agent, who'd worked in the American biological weapons community unnoticed for twenty-five years - had just been arrested, but not before infecting himself with the pathogen which caused human organs to liquefy and ooze out every body orifice.

The only 'intel' of note in the hours that Aderholt and Beeman sat there? One was a product of Crandall's final demented ramblings. "The American dream. She's pretty, he's lucky. You'd never suspect them."

The other? Aderholt had asked if the dying man had wanted a Coke.

I COULD WHILE-AWAY THE HOURS

These sorts of stakeouts were always, 'hurry-up and wait'. Agent Wolf had relieved both Aderholt as well as Beeman from all other projects. Both of them were ordered to be with William Crandall, 'for the duration'.

As it was, Crandall was hanging on far, far longer than the infectious diseases doctor had predicted.

It was 2 am and Beeman had just nodded off in the chair. Aderholt had just got a few hours between 10 pm and then. Sleeping in various brands and styles of chairs - or even on car seats - was a necessary skill honed by Special Agents.

Waking and checking his watch, Beeman saw that it was now only 2:20 am. Twenty minutes of shut-eye. He said, "I'm getting too old for this."

Aderholt's voice then pierced the quiet noise of hospital beeps and far-off footfalls on vinyl floors.

"Say, Stan," Aderholt asked quietly, "who is 'Alice'?"

Beeman feared that his buddy wanted to get 'Alice' a Coke. He said, "where'd you get that name?"

Aderholt said, "from you, just now. I didn't realize you were asleep. Who's 'Alice'?"

Beeman rubbed his eyes and looked down through the glass at Crandall. The man was still breathing, but there were tracks of dried liquids below his eyes, nose, and mouth. Probably his ears, too, except Beeman couldn't see them.

"Alice is Pastor Tim's wife," Beeman said, sighing at the reality of 20 minutes of sleep, probably all he was going to get.

Aderholt said, "what about your buddy, Jennings? Philip Jennings?"

Beeman opened his eyes wider, responded, "what about him?"

Aderholt shrugged his shoulders, then added, "you've run almost everyone by me in Pastor Tim's circle, people who it might be good to pay a visit. The church secretary, the assistant pastor, Dale Woods, people down at the Food Pantry. You even talked to three or four people who'd been with Pastor Tim down in Ecuador, during his student days. Talked to a guy who'd been in Vancouver at the WCC General Assembly. Nothing. I wouldn't be surprised if you have a call in with The Pope."

Beeman rubbed his eyes, "What's your point, Dennis?" Looking down at Crandall on the bed below, he said, "I can't imagine we'll be here at the hospital much longer."

"You've even gone to see Pastor Tim, himself," Aderholt said. "But I'm wondering one thing - why have you never talked with your buddy about Tim and Alice? You said that Elizabeth called him, 'our pastor'. People don't say that lightly, Stan."

Beeman sat back, craving sleep. Yet that question that Aderholt had just asked, it bugged him. Who, the hell, was Special Agent Dennis Aderholt to suggest that he, Beeman, cross that line with a friend. A confidante. A neighbour across the street always ready with a beer and an ear.

It was Beeman's weariness talking. Beeman thought back to that night he was telling Philip about Gaad's murder, telling him over whisky and a beer. It was the look on Philip's face - a look Stan had thought was typical of a civilian hearing about secret Soviet atrocities for the first time.

In any other setting, he'd have thought that that had been a look of guilt.

All Beeman then said was, "Gaad." Aderholt changed tack.

"I was just thinking about Gaad, too. He was a spy-hunter extraordinaire. One day, I hope to be in his chair. Extraordinary, well, all except for Martha. Going 'batshit' on the mail robot. And getting the shit beaten out of him by a 5 foot 4 woman."

That was the woman who'd taken Gaad's service revolver from him. That's tradecraft. Quite like another 5 foot 4 gal who'd taken a knife from a homeless guy.

Beeman, he had not yet fully embraced Aderholt's change of topic. Beeman thought, 'maybe I should broach the dinner with Philip? Why am I reluctant to do that? Is it because he's my only friend?'

At that, the medical equipment started to 'alarm'. Crandall had flat-lined.

Amador, Nina, Gaad, now Crandall. All dead. Somewhere in there, Beeman's wife had left him. It had been Burov betraying his country, by giving up the Soviet biological weapons program.

Who was left for Beeman to confide in?

(to be continued…..)