"Mother? Is something wrong?" Of course something was wrong. You didn't need to be a CIA agent to hear it in her voice.

There was a pause. "I had . . . guests. This afternoon." He glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall. 7:30. He remained quiet, letting his mother finish what she had to say. "They, they asked about you." She was afraid, he could tell that, but without being able to see her he couldn't identify the source of her fear. Was it the guests themselves, their questions about her son, or was she afraid of him? The last wasn't inconceivable.

"What kind of questions?" he asked, feigning only a mild interest. His mother thought he exported airplane parts, nobody should be asking her about his work. Theoretically.

"Just . . . little things. Like they were trying to get a sense of your character. 'When did you last speak to him', 'Are you close', 'what was he like as a boy', that kind of thing. Jonny, please, tell me you didn't kill anyone."

"I didn't kill anyone, Mother," he complied, the lie coming easily. "What an absurd thing to suggest. Why do you ask?"

"I, I just got that sense. Like they were investigating you for some heienous crime, but they didn't want to come out and say so."

He noticed his finger tapping against the table and stilled it, annoyed at himself for letting the clue to his anxiety show, even in an empty room. "Who were 'they'?" he asked, sounding unconcerned.

"Two men. They said they were private investigators. They left me their card, hang on." He heard her shuffling through some papers. "Teal Investigations. Dennis Teal was the one who gave me his card."

He made a mental note of the name. "Don't worry about it, Mother. The boss is considering me for promotion, the company probably hired them."

"Oh," she said in the same quiet, concerned voice she'd had for the rest of the conversation, then after a moment, she laughed. "Oh!" Much stronger, happier. "That must be it. Just like a mother to get all worked up over nothing! Good luck on the promotion, Jonny." He could almost hear her wide smile.

"Thank you." Her distress eased, they said their good byes, and she hung up. He gently placed the reciever back on its hook.

"Something wrong, Jack?" a voice asked from behind him.

He let the smile caused by the beautiful voice wipe away any worry that may have made it to his expression. He turned around, and just the sight of his wife lightened his heart. "Nothing, Laura." No need to upset her. It was probably exactly that anyway - nothing.

"Good, because Sydney wants one of your bedtime stories."

They exchanged smiles, "Immediately," he consented. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek as he passed her, then made his way up the stairs and to his daughter's room. "Hey, Sweetie."

Her eyes lit up. "Daddy!" She threw herself into his spread arms and he swung her around in a circle. She squealed in delight.

When he put her down again, he looked at her with an appraising expession. When she began the fidget, he declared, "You've grown two whole inches since Monday." She giggled.

"Tell me a story, Daddy!"

He smiled at her fondly, "Into bed with you, first." He caught her up and she squealed in delight again as he hefted her into the air and dropped her onto her Strawberry Shortcake bed with a bounce. She scrambled under the covers, and he switched her light from 'bright' to 'nightlight' before sitting down beside her pillow. When she had properly arranged herself among her stuffed animals and dolls, he began, "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess."

She sat up. "How old was she?"

"Five, just like you."

"What's her name?"

"Shh, lie down and let me tell the story." She did so, though he held no doubt that the same routine would happen the next time he started a story. "The princess was called Sydney. Her mother was the lovely Queen Laura . . . " he looked up and smiled when he saw his wife leaning against the doorframe, as eager to hear his story as Sydney. This, too, was routine. "Her father, King Jack was away on business."

"Why?" The question was neither routine nor curious. She sounded almost . . . angry.

"He was selling flying machines to a neighboring kingdom," Jack tried to explain gently.

"I want King Jack with the Princess," she sulked.

He looked up at his wife and shrugged. "Alright. King Jack was home." Sydney smiled and relaxed, happy again. He spun a tale of Dragons, endanged townsfolk, and a brave young Princess. Sydney listened, enraptured, until her eyelids started drooping. Jack subtly changed the rythym of his voice and story, so that, despite the Princess's danger, it lulled the five-year-old into sleep. "The end," he whispered finally, though she was long asleep. She never asked how the stories ended. Either she heard it even in sleep, her dreams finished it, or she completely forgot the whole thing. He rose from the bed, careful not to jostle her awake. He left the door open a crack, as per his daughter's preference, and escorted his wife down the stairs. "So, what's my grade tonight, Professor?" he asked teasingly, as he often did.

She laughed. She taught English Literature at the University but never once gave him less than an A- for one of his improvised bedtime stories. "Your audience fell asleep in the middle of a red dragon's terrifying assault on her favorite character. That deserves bonus points, I think. A+." Then she shook her finger at him sternly, "But if she wakes up with nightmares, I reserve the right to give you an F."

"If the spider story didn't, this dragon one doesn't stand a chance."

Laura gave a mock shudder. "The spider one gave me nightmares."

"That's because Wizardess Laura was wrapped up in a web and couldn't do anything to help Apprentice Sydney. Sydney didn't find that nearly as terrifying as you did." He smiled at her. "After all, how else could I have the little Apprentice save the day, with her mother so powerful?"

Laura laughed. "But no more spiders, deal?"

"Deal," he agreed, his eyes dancing in amusement.

They fell into a companionable silence. She drew out some papers her students had submitted. He settled into his armchair and let himself relax for the first time in days. Laura rifled through a desk drawer in search of a red pen, and asked, "How'd your trip go?"

"Well enough. Austria's nice this time of year. Perhaps we could take a vacation there when Sydney gets a little older. Anyway, we arrived Monday evening, their time." He knew telling her this was against regulations. He knew he should never have told her the truth about his job. But she was his wife. If he were killed on a mission, he wanted her to know he knew the danger existed. It wasn't that he wanted her to worry, he didn't, but it would almost be worse if his death came out of nowhere. He didn't want to lie to her. They saw little enough of each other, he didn't want to spend what remained concealing things from her. She understood. As soon as he explained things, she stopped complaining about his 'exporting' trips. He didn't need to make things up when he came back with injuries impossible to hide from her. And being able to talk about it with someone, it made it easier to keep quiet with everyone else. Besides, who would she tell? Sydney's kindergarten teacher?

"Daddy?" Sydney looked up from the bowl of Lucky Charms that had engrossed her for the last few minutes. Not surprisingly, the marshmellows were gone, and she had left the healthy part to get soggy.

Jack put down his mug of coffee and smiled at her. Her solemn expression did not lighten. "Yeah, honey?"

"Will you be home tonight?"

"Yes, I will."

"Pinky swear?"

He hooked pinkies with her with all the seriousness of a meeting with the President. "Pinky swear."

Her face blossomed into a sunny smile. He couldn't help but smile back. "Good," she declared. "I want a butterfly story tonight."

"You'll have one," he promised.

"Will you be home tomorrow night?"

"I think so."

"Will you be home tomorrow's tomorrow night?"

He shook his head regretfully. "Can't, honey. Daddy's got a trip."

Her face fell. "Oh." She took another spoonful of cereal, and asked sullenly, "Why do you gotta go?"

"You need to go to school, Mommy needs to teach her classes, and I need to go on trips." She looked unconvinced.

He was saved from further discussion by Laura's entrance. "Sweetie! You're still in your jammies! The bus will be here in ten minutes!"She hustled Sydney out of the kitchen up the stairs. She returned a minute later as Jack rinsed out his mug. "She getting dressed 'by herself'. Why the long face?"

He shook his head dismissively, but then said, "Sydney was asking me why I'm away so much. I wasn't answering very well."

"I spent twenty minutes yesterday trying to explain why I was cleaning the living room. I wouldn't worry about it." She smiled reassuringly.

Jack nodded slowly, not completely convinced. Then he pushed the thought away, and said, "Might be late for dinner. I'm flying over to Washington today for a meeting. Theoretically, the plane gets back here at 5."

Dennis Teal rubbed his eyes wearily, and gave the stewardess a fake smile as she passed by him. "Could I have a water?" She promised it was on its way and moved on. He looked at his notes again. Aside from letters, photos, and telephone conversations, contact with mother has been minimal. She doesn't travel, he hasn't visited. Telephone frequency: once a month, approx. Letters and photos: Christmas and birthdays. The woman still called him Jonny, for Pete's sake. He doubted anything from her interview was completely accurate. Not that he thought she lied to him. No, quite the contrary, he was certain her son lied to her, and everything she knew of him was filtered through mother glasses.

'He goes on and on about her. She's a real doll. He's a good daddy.' The quote was side noted with Mrs. Bristow has never actually met her granddaughter. That the telephone conversations centered around his daughter seemed to be the basis for her judgement of his parental abilities.

'He was a bright boy. Quiet, but very bright. He's the first Bristow to get a doctorate. His father was so proud.' James Bristow had died shortly after that degree had been earned. A heart attack caused by high choloesterol and smoking. 'Violent? [nervous laugh] No, not Jonny. Even as a child he had an amazing leash on his temper. If he wanted you to know he was mad, he could have the most wicked tongue. But he doesn't get violent when he's angry.'

"Wanted you to know?" Dennis had queried.

But she had just shook her head. He knew he was close to something. A fear that floated well below her consciousness. He had tried to ease it out. "What about when he isn't angry?" Something flitted behind her eyes.

"He's not a suspect for anything is he?" It wasn't the 'how dare you suggest such a thing about my son' kind of question most mothers would demand. Instead, he got the impression that, deep down, she believed her son capable of doing something nasty, and she needed assurance that he hadn't. She knew her son better than Dennis had given her credit for.

"Not that I know of, ma'am." It was a bald lie, but she accepted it without question. Aside from his presence there, she had little reason not to.

"Jonny's a good man, Mr. Teal. Whatever else you hear about him, remember that. Don't let his prickly sense of privacy fool you."

"So he keeps some things to himself?"

She had laughed as though he had said something unexpectedly funny. But her words, when she spoke, were serious. "He has his secrets and holds them close. What they are, you and I will never learn from him."

"Your water, sir," the stewardess interrupted his reverie.

"Thank you. How long until we reach Washington?"

"We should land in approximately half an hour." He thanked her again, and she continued up the aisle. He straightened the sheaf of papers into a neat pile and placed them inside a manila folder. The interview had told him nothing he hadn't already known. Jack Bristow was secretive, quiet, and capable of cold-blooded crime. The possiblity existed that his mother might have known something new and been willing to share the information, but that was not why Dennis Teal had hopped a plane bound for London, Ontario to speak with her. The fruits of this this visit would be harvested when Jack Bristow learned someone was asking after him.

The return trip to his office was uneventful. The plane landed safely and on time. He breezed through security, his luggage miraculously arrived at the same airport at the same time he did. He found a taxi to take him to his apartment. He dropped off his overnight bag, then caught the same taxi before someone else claimed it or the driver got bored of the locale. The office of Teal Investigations was on the 3rd floor of an office building in central DC. A man was already sitting on one of the couches in the waiting room when he walked in. Dennis recognized him immediately and managed to cover his surprise at how fast his bait was taken.

"Mr. Bristow would like a word with you," his secretary, Nancy, informed him.

"Won't you come in," Dennis invited, unlocking the door to his private office. Mr. Bristow rose and followed him into the room. "How may I help you, Mr. Bristow?" he asked waving an invitation to take the chair opposite his desk. He cleared a few papers off his own chair and did likewise.

"I'd like to know why you flew out to Ontario yesterday to speak with my mother. You worried her." His voice was even, his largest concern seemed to be that his mother was upset. Two things belied the impression. He was here and he he was asking why.

"Mr. Bristow, you have been under investigation for two years." Did his eyes widen? Dennis couldn't be sure. Nothing else about the man changed. "We have done character study after character study, and have determined that you fit the profile. However, a profile is not proof."

"Profile of what?"

"Assassin." Bristow was silent. No denial. No expression. "Someone is killing our agents, Agent Bristow."

"You think it is me." Inflectionless. Even for a spy he was surprisingly closed.

"Who do you work for, Agent Bristow?"

Was that humor? Bitterness? Something flashed through his eyes too quickly to identify. "Aeronotic Assembly, incorporated."